


Il Bolero

by shamelessmash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anticipation, BDSM, Concussions, Dirty Talk, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, It's For a Case, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Paddle, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Riding Crops, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock is a Brat, Slash, Smut, Spanking, Stitches, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Subspace, accidental sub space, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-09 09:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15264381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamelessmash/pseuds/shamelessmash
Summary: While working a case, Sherlock follows a lead to Il Bolero, a shop that caters to the BDSM lifestyle. There he meets a thirty-something clerk named John who offers to help him test a few spanking tools that accidentaly send Sherlock into subspace.He certainly wasn't expecting to get addicted to the sensation.Porn with a tiny bit of plot. Enjoy :D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/gifts), [Otter_Von_Bismarck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otter_Von_Bismarck/gifts).



> This is what happens after a late night conversation with Cookie and Besina.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful May-Shepard, Cookie, Nautilicious and Besina for beta-ing. It's always a joy to get to discuss ideas with you and encourage each other to keep writing. Your support and ideas made this fic SO MUCH BETTER.

“But Sherlock, I-”

“Molly, the shop is right there. If you don’t feel able to do something as simple as shopping without looking nervous the entire time, then leave.”

Molly pulled her lips into a tight line. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Sherlock led the way to the red door of _Il Bolero_.

They were greeted by a woman in her fifties, hair pulled back in a tight bun, smiling warmly at them. Molly was wide-eyed and taking it all in. The small shop was so narrow it would have felt like a cramped closet if it weren’t for the high ceilings. Every inch of the right-hand wall was covered with delicates. Brassieres, panties, garter belts, and corsets in every color, shape and size. The left-hand side was for accessories and the cash register. The dressing rooms were at the far end, hidden behind plush dark purple velour drapes.

“Sherlock, you didn’t say this was a lingerie shop.”

Sherlock was chasing a serial killer and he was thrilled about it. It was exactly what he needed after months of dull thefts and badly executed frauds. Even cold cases couldn’t keep him busy. He was driving himself up the wall. Cocaine had been becoming an appealing option when Lestrade called him about this case.

Three murders, and they all had one thing in common: all the victims had visited this shop within 36 hours of being found bound and strangled.

Due to his distracting divorce procedures, Lestrade had overlooked the credit card receipts that connected the victims to the shop. Rather than informing him of it and going through the tedious and lengthy process of having all the employees brought in for interrogation, Sherlock opted to pay the shop a visit. After all, if the staff didn’t know they were under investigation, they wouldn’t try to hide anything. Not that anyone ever managed to hide anything from Sherlock.

He turned to Molly. “It doesn’t matter what they sell. You’re here as a distraction.”

“But Sherlock,” Molly insisted as her blushing increased, “it’s _lingerie_.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it was horse manure. The investigation led here, so here we are. Now go shop.” Sherlock manoeuvred her further into the shop. “And take your time,” he added quietly.

Before Molly could add anything, another employee, a blue haired woman in her thirties, came over. Sherlock left Molly with the clerk and wandered off. He knew he could have managed alone but having Molly as a distraction made the process easier.

He spoke with the woman behind the counter first. She was one of the owners, and obviously not a suspect given her arthritis. While he listened to her talk about the history of the shop, Sherlock managed to spot the shift schedule behind the counter. The shop had at least six employees.

He then went to check on Molly, an excuse to get a look at the blue haired clerk. They were currently discussing garter belts, which explained the bright red blush on Molly’s cheeks. Blue Hair was also innocent. Well, of murder, not of the drugs she sold on the side. It was something she started recently… Ah, recent divorce. Legal fees. Still not a murderer.

Sherlock idled further down the shop. It was better not to make Molly more nervous then she already was.

As he moved towards the dressing rooms, a corridor on the left revealed itself. The lingerie displayed there offered a different variety of options than the front room. The brassieres and corsets were covered with jewels and mirrors. Some were made of leather, and those ranged from plain black leather to coloured to being covered with straps, metal rods, and hooks in various places. Underwear that barely covered anything, or with holes in key places and- oh God was that latex? How… impractical.

The corridor lead to a room with softer lighting. Every inch of display space held chains, whips, paddles, rope, floggers, and spreader bars of all different shapes, sizes, and colors.

Sherlock had done his research. He was aware of the lifestyle that this shop catered to. Even if he didn’t quite understand the appeal, he had found their website elegant and professional.

Nevertheless, as he stood in the middle of the room, he found himself overwhelmed. Looking at pictures of individual items and reading their descriptions was one thing. Seeing them all at the same time as his mind supplied image after image of their uses was another.

Sherlock took a deep breath, fighting to keep his focus. He spotted the riding crops, the only familiar items in the room from his brief time horseback riding.

He let himself gravitate towards the crops, taking one off the rack. It was fine leather, springy, good quality. He had tested it on himself once. He wanted to know what the horse would feel. It had hurt, obviously. Even after all his research, Sherlock was perplexed by pain in a sexual context. He understood how some people could be aroused by domination, by causing pain. But experiencing pleasure from pain? Besides the appeal of the endorphin release after long term exposure to pain, it left him baffled.

“Looking for something in particular?”

Pushing aside his theories, Sherlock turned and found himself looking down a short blond man in his early thirties. He did not look like the type to work here at all, not with that lumpy oatmeal sweater. This man’s fashion sense, or lack thereof, made no sense in this shop, but then again, neither did those latex pants hanging in the corridor.

Until he noticed the man’s hands. A doctor. Interesting.

Sherlock put on an amiable smile. “I’m not sure. I’m a bit new to all this.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for.” The clerk nodded towards the riding crop Sherlock was holding. “For you or your partner?”

Sherlock wondered if he should get Molly and pose as a fake couple. Given her reaction when they came into the shop, it was probably for the best not to involve her.

“For me.”

“And how experienced is your partner?”

“Nonexistent.”

“And you?”

“Enough to be interested in learning more.”

“Mm. I know the riding crop got really popular with all the 50 Shades stuff, but I wouldn’t recommend that for beginners. If I may?” The clerk pulled the crop from Sherlock’s hands gently. He put it back in its place and reached for a black leather paddle. “Instead, I’d suggest something like this. It’s made to be similar to a hand.” He placed his hand on the oval part of the paddle, confirming it had practically the same shape and size.

Sherlock found himself staring at the man’s hand, or rather his wrist as gravity pulled down his cuff to reveal a fading tan line. Along with the haircut, his stance, this man had _military_ written all over him.

Army doctor. _Very_ interesting.

Definitely not a serial killer.

The clerk handed Sherlock the paddle and waited. What was Sherlock supposed to do with it? To prevent looking too lost, Sherlock did the same as he did with the crop, holding it at either end and giving it a bit of an arc. Only the paddle reacted nothing like the crop and barely curved. Sherlock took the handle and tapped the oval part in the palm of his hands a few times. The thick leather gave it a nice weight, and the metal strip inside gave it a nice spring.

“It’s a nice alternative when the spanking lasts a while. To give the hand a break, you know?”

Sherlock did not know but he understood what was implied.

“This one is a bit more intense.” The clerk pointed to a wooden paddle. “It’s… honestly, it’s simpler if you try them out.”

Sherlock blinked. “Try?”

“It’s best to know what you’re going to feel. You don’t have to, but I’d recommend it. And these are expensive and non-refundable. Is your partner with you? I can pick a few options for you to try out.”

“No.”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to, I was just offering.”

“No, I mean, I don’t have a partner.”

“Oh, well, I could test them on you if you want.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly as he processed what was happening. The casual tone was throwing him off.

“You’re offering to spank me?”

“As a courtesy. It’s okay if you’re not comfortable.”

Being offered to test various spanking tools was definitely on the odd side of the spectrum of things that had happened to Sherlock during an investigation.

“Alright.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. What was he doing? He already knew this man wasn’t a suspect. He didn’t need to do this. So why was he watching an Army doctor grab a bunch of spanking tools and following him into the next room?

Before he could figure it out, Sherlock found himself standing in the center of the new room and slowly turning to look at everything. The previous room was tame compared to this one. It was almost like a historical exhibit of torture tools. The walls were covered with ornamented knives, daggers, metal restraints, even what looked like a medieval torture chamber that could be suspended to the ceiling. There was a pommel horse in one corner and a polished wooden chair with a hole in the seat in the other.

It was interesting really, how they had adapted everything into ‘safer’ versions.

The clerk headed to the small counter with a display of different sizes of stainless steel rods, cock rings, and collars. He neatly aligned his selection of tools on the counter and turned to face Sherlock.

“I’m John, by the way. I figured you should at least know my name before I start spanking you.”

“Sherlock.”

“Nice to meet you Sherlock. Take off your coat.”

John sounded exactly like a doctor instructing his patient to undress. It was giving Sherlock a false sense of security. After all, he wasn’t getting a physical but getting spanked. Then again, this was probably easier for John than giving prostate exams.

As he put down his coat on the counter next to the tools, Sherlock figured breaking into the owner’s office didn’t seem like such a bad idea compared to this.

“I’m going to start with the leather paddle. Now, stand straight, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Good. I am going to aim for the meaty part of your arse, just above the thighs.”

Sherlock felt a gentle press of the leather paddle on the area and stopped breathing a moment.

What had he gotten himself into?

“It’s important that you stay still so I don’t hurt you. The pain won’t be so bad since you’re dressed, but during a scene, it can be very painful, and not in the good way. So don’t move, okay?”

Sherlock hoped Molly didn’t finish up front until he was done here.

John put a hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”  Something in John’s tone made him turn.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock lied.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

He wasn’t sure if it was John’s open face, the genuine concern, or Sherlock’s own bullheadedness to finish what he started that urged him forward.

“I know.”

“Okay. But if you want to stop at any moment, just say so.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I need a verbal answer.”

The multiple consent disclaimers he had seen during his research flowed through Sherlock’s mind. Suddenly the word felt loaded, as if the syllable was about to push him off a cliff.

“Yes.” The word came out with the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

There was a slight hitch in John’s breathing, subtle, but Sherlock heard it. Interesting. Was it the consent, the context, or Sherlock himself that was arousing John?

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

The moment seemed to stretch, even though Sherlock only waited three seconds before the paddle landed on his right arse cheek. There was more sound than actual pain. It barely hurt, mostly a sting, but nothing lasting. 

“You alright?”

John’s voice startled Sherlock. He had tuned everything out for a moment, concentrating only on the sensation. Odd, he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

“Fine.” He replied, but the word sounded perplexed, just as he felt.

“What do you think of the sensation?”

“I don’t have a basis of comparison to have an opinion on.”

“Okay.”

“What’s the next one?”

John seemed to get the message and switched out the paddle.

“Leather, just like the first one, but stiffer.” John handed it to Sherlock to inspect.

Sherlock tested the spring, hitting his hand harder than earlier. The sting was more pronounced. He handed it back, already attempting to imagine how it will feel. John took his place next to him and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder once more.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and just as he let out the air, the paddle hit his left arse cheek. The pain was the same but stronger.

How would it feel directly on skin?  

“Still alright?”

Sherlock blinked a few times. “Yes.” He had tuned out again. He didn’t mean to, it just happened.

John switched out the leather paddle for the long wood paddle that resembled a cricket bat, polished to a shine and decorated with a leather cord at the end.

“This one is not forgiving. It will hit across the arse all at once. I’ll go easy, just enough so you get an idea. Ready?”

“Yes.”

This time Sherlock didn’t have to wait. It was so sudden he almost gasped in surprise as the length of the paddle struck the width of his arse. The sensation was completely different. Barely any sound, just a dull thud as the hardwood hit his clothed flesh. But the impact was much harder than the leather ones, making the initial pain intense at first, the area throbbing before decreasing in waves, like a stone in still water.

If the first two hits had made him tune out for a second, this one felt like his head had been submerged in water. His mind stilled, focused solely on the throb of his arse.

He had never taken the time to analyse pain like this. Most of his experiences with pain were a hindrance, something that slowed him down, making him curse his transport.

But this. This was fascinating.

“You okay?”

Sherlock turned to John and blinked slowly. “Wouldn’t this bruise after a, um, session?”

John seemed surprised by his question.

“Some people like that, seeing the bruised skin afterwards. Feeling the pain for a few days after the scene.”

Sherlock didn’t quite know why but he somehow understood. The thought was… comforting.

He looked at John. “That was you going easy?”

“Yes.”

“Can you go again at your regular strength?”

The hitch in John’s breath was louder than earlier.

“I’m not sure that’s… a good idea.”

He was resisting. Why was John resisting? Was it because he was afraid to hurt Sherlock or was it because he was aroused by it?

“Please.”

Sherlock shouldn’t be insisting, this was dragging on for much longer than it needed to. But there was something about how John’s eyes went half-closed at his plea, before glancing at the door.

“Fine,” John said calmly but a bit raspier. “But just one.”

Hm. Arousal then.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock wished he didn’t sound so eager. He counted down the three seconds until impact, but it didn’t come. He resisted turning his head to see what John was waiting for. Was he trying to create some type of anticipation? Or was it due to him needing a moment to-

“Oh!”

Sherlock gasped before he knew what was happening. The pain was so intense he almost took a step forward, but he somehow managed to stay in place. He was breathing heavily as the width of his arse throbbed in pain and drew his complete attention and-

Everything else disappeared. Nothing but the dull throb of his arse.

And John.

Oh, Sherlock was _very_ aware of John. He was holding Sherlock’s shoulders and looking at him with a concerned frown. His hands were so warm, his hold strong but gentle. His mouth was moving.

How long had his mouth been moving?

“Sherlock? Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice sounded odd. Bit sluggish.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

If only John knew just how fine he was.

“We should stop-”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “Keep going.”

John licked his lips. Sherlock suddenly became aware of just how close they were standing to each other. John must have come to the same realisation and took a step back.

“The riding crop.” The plea rushed out of Sherlock.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sherlock found himself pleased to see John struggle with his arousal. He had never had such an intense urge to seduce someone, especially after so little time. But he wanted to see what it would take for John to lose control, to give in.

Without opening his eyes, John took the crop off the counter.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he could see the ease with which John held it, the practiced movement as he tested its strength and tension with both hands, giving the tool a slight arc before letting his arm drop down to his side.

_Oh_. This was John’s instrument of choice.

John finally looked at Sherlock, pupils blown wide. The sight made Sherlock shiver, quickly soothed by the warm weight of John’s hand on his shoulder as they took their positions.

John cleared his throat, but his “Ready?” still sounded raspy.

As did Sherlock’s “Yes.”

He didn’t have to wait the standard three seconds. A whistling sound was the only warning before there was a loud crack. Sherlock instantly felt a stinging sensation in the center of his left arse cheek before it started burning. Contrary to the wide paddles, the crop’s impact was small yet brutal. The pain reminded him of burns. He wasn’t fond of the sensation, but very interested in John’s skill.

“Again?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

The crop whistled through the air and landed in the center of his right cheek this time, the pain blooming into an intense burn.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it, you’ve tried them all.”

The sinking feeling was destabilizing. Sherlock didn’t want it to be over. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in years, not since he stopped taking drugs. They had been his escape for so long, his tools to help him focus, help him block out the constant input. And now, in the middle of an investigation, Sherlock had accidentally discovered a solution he had been looking for for years. What was confusing was how he had to stop himself from leaning closer towards John, and how his cock was now half hard. But most concerning was how Sherlock didn’t want to try and understand. He wanted to grab whatever this was and never let go.

“Sherlock?”

Molly’s high voice, though soft, felt like it popped the invisible bubble surrounding them. And with it, the input all came back in a rush, like a bucket of cold water.

“What?” Sherlock almost barked at her.

“I’m, um, done, if you are.” Molly replied, looking down.

_The case_.

What had he done? He had forgotten about the case. Had let himself, no, insisted on getting spanked by John. He was _aroused_ by it. This was unacceptable, letting himself get distracted like this.

“Yes, I’m done.” Sherlock grabbed his coat. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.”

Sherlock stopped before John enunciated the T, and it made him want to scream. He had lost control of his body, and he didn’t know how to get it back. His panic must have been visible if John’s concerned frown was anything to go by.

“I-I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you have any questions…” It seemed like there was something else John wasn’t saying, but Sherlock couldn’t figure it out.

It didn’t matter, Sherlock needed to leave. He needed to think, and that wouldn’t happen here.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

With a last nod, Sherlock turned away from John, not bothering to check if Molly was following him.

Molly’s purchases were waiting for her at the cash register. A pale blue corset with white embroidered flowers and matching garter belt. It was beautiful and suited Molly perfectly.

While he paid, Sherlock couldn’t manage to shake off… whatever state of mind had been triggered by that spanking. He needed to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible.

Molly grabbed her bag, trying not to look guilty about buying something she seemed genuinely happy to own, and they headed towards the exit.

Sherlock felt something then, something making its way through his muddled mind. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of John, standing half-hidden behind the rack of stockings, staring back.

A part of Sherlock wished John hadn’t been there. Another was pleased to see whatever had happened, whatever was still happening, seemed mutual.

He had a thousand questions. And he couldn’t utter a single one.

The bell above the door rang, and like a frightened deer, Sherlock left.

He managed to shake Molly off, after she insisted he come by the morgue the next day to collect a large bag of body parts as a thank you.

But any hope Sherlock had of focusing on the case was lost as soon as he sat in the cab. His arse was still tender. The vibrations of the cab caused the skin of his arse to throb, like an echo of the beating it had received. The more he focused on the pain, the more everything dropped away. It was so… peaceful.  

When the pain started to fade, Sherlock squirmed in his seat, playing with the sensation. It didn’t take long for his cock to take an interest. It was so odd, finding a space where his mind was calm, yet his body reacted this way. Probably the endorphins. He was so focused on the floating sensation in his mind that he didn’t realise he was cupping his half hard dick through his trousers. Sherlock had a fleeting thought that he should pull it away. Instead he felt his hand press harder, and the answering rush of blood in his cock, making it fully erect. Mixed with the tenderness of his arse, Sherlock bit back a moan and rearranged his coat to hide his crotch.

Rather than dealing with his erection, Sherlock headed for his computer as soon as he got home. He had research to do.

A bit of hacking led to John’s military file. It confirmed Sherlock’s deductions about John being an Army doctor, but he couldn’t have guessed John was a Captain. Impressive. Discharged after getting shot in the left shoulder. Hm. Why wouldn’t John try to find work in a clinic? Was his need for an adrenaline driven lifestyle that substantial?

The internet led Sherlock to John’s blog, which contained a link to the _Il Bolero_ website, and another to a sort of Wiki-BDSM website. Sherlock found himself reading about subspace, which confirmed that the headspace he had found himself during his time with John was common.

This must be why John asked if he was shopping with his partner. He’d been worried about Sherlock’s aftercare. It made his cock twitch at the memory. He had been hoping his erection would wilt, but it seemed his research topic was keeping it interested.

Was that why John looked concerned when he left? If he had lingered, would John had offered to take him home for aftercare? They could have taken the cab together. Sherlock could have basked in subspace while John got them home.

What would have John done, seeing Sherlock squirm on his seat?

Would he have covered Sherlock’s cock with his hand, like he did?

Sherlock leaned back in the couch, eyes closed, concentrating on the throb of his dick.

Come to think of it, John must have known Sherlock might end up in subspace. He would have been on the lookout. That would explain John’s reaction after the first hit with the wood paddle.

A shiver went down Sherlock’s spine at the memory. The pain had been so intense, but the calm that overtook him had been such a rush. Would he be able to recreate the effect himself? Hm. If John wasn’t there it didn’t seem so… enticing.

That moment just before Sherlock left, when their eyes met, just the memory made him moan. Giving in, Sherlock’s hand slid down his chest and cupped himself through his trousers.

Would John have dared to do such a thing in the shop? Sherlock’s cock hardened at the thought.

He never really bothered with fantasies but imagining John testing the paddles on his bare arse had quite an effect.

_Go on then._

John’s voice in his head made Sherlock lick his lips. With a shaking breath, he raised his hips off the couch, and slid his trousers and pants to his knees. With his now very hard cock exposed, he grabbed the base and bit his lip.

_Like that?_

Sherlock imagined John’s hand instead of his own, pulling gently, slowly, from base to tip and down again. With his other, he reached down, cupping and teasing his balls before reaching around to press the tender areas of his arse. The combination was incredible, making him squirm on the couch, half thrusting into his hand.

_I said don’t move._

Sherlock fell back down, the command, even in fantasy, made his cock harder.

_More?_

“Yes.” Sherlock whispered.

He wanted more, so much more. Sherlock had never experienced physical pleasure like this; his brain had always been in the way. But now that everything was tuned down, that he was home, alone, Sherlock let his body take over. He let the sensations wash over him, the pain and pleasure blending together, moving him closer to the edge.

It was overwhelming. He had never felt his body chase pleasure like this. His hand was moving furiously on his cock, while the other dug his nails into the skin of his arse. It made his legs tensed, his back arched off the couch, and his breathing sound like a constant moan.

Sherlock imagined John hitting his arse with each instrument, one after the other. There was something about John’s skill with the riding crop. It made Sherlock want to take his time, imagine John showing off, drawing patterns on his arse and back, making sure he would feel the pain for days.

_I want you to think of me, every time you move, every time you sit down, every time you press your fingers-_

“Oh!”

His orgasm felt like the butt of a gun to the back of his head. Sherlock barely registered his wanton moans as he came all over his shirt, his nails digging into the skin of his arse, his trousers pulling against the skin. He had never experienced an orgasm so intense. When he came to, he had one hand holding his softening cock and the other trapped between his arse and the couch.

His body still sluggish, barely responsive, Sherlock managed to pull up his pants and trousers. He looked around for something to wipe his sullied shirt that didn’t involve him getting up from the couch. Coming up empty-handed, Sherlock opted to pull it off. It fell to the floor with an unceremonious flop, while he reached for the blanket on the backrest of the couch and let himself drift asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day.

Mrs Hudson’s hoover woke Sherlock the next morning, the irritating sound hitting a nerve. Why the hell was she cleaning this early in the morning?

With an angry huff, Sherlock shifted to cover his head with the blanket.

Wait…

Sherlock moved a hand to check. He wasn’t dreaming. He was on the couch, shirtless. That in itself wasn’t alarming. But the fact that he felt rested certainly was.

Sherlock pulled back the blanket and blinked at the brightness of the room, focusing on the angle of the sunlight.

That couldn’t be.

He pulled his phone out from between the cushions. Eleven. He had slept ten hours straight. That hadn’t happened in years. Not without chemical assistance.

Sherlock spotted his rumpled shirt on the floor and everything came flooding back. The case, the shop, and John. Which led to the spanking, the wank, and the reason why Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch.

_—Think of me every time you move—_

A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine, making him fight the urge to reach down into his pants. The next moment his eyes snapped open in shock. He had never felt arousal this suddenly, this strongly before. All those years without any issues with his transport, limiting masturbation to the erections that would not yield. Not once had he fantasised. He had never seen the interest. He even tried watching pornography once, and it made his cock go soft.

And now, just thinking of getting spanked by John was making him hard.

With a huff, Sherlock flopped onto his back. He didn’t have time for this; he had a case to solve. A case that involved returning to Il Bolero to finish interrogating the staff about the victims.

Which meant seeing John again.

Sherlock’s mind flashed through the memories of the moment John said yes to the second paddle hit, the sound of the riding crop as it whistled through the air, the look on John’s face at their last glance—

 _No_. He needed to forget about that. And paddles. And riding crops. Forget how it felt when—

Sherlock’s morning hard-on twitched. He covered his head with a pillow and screamed.

It didn’t help.

Sherlock grabbed his soiled shirt and stood. He dropped it into the kitchen bin. He didn’t want anything that reminded him of the fantasy. An anomaly, that’s all this was. He had gotten carried away by the endorphin release caused by the pain. All he had to do was keep his focus on the case.

He showered, pointedly ignoring his erection as he let the hot water wash over him. He wanted to be irritated, angry, but it was no use, he felt… the opposite of irritated. _Content_.

Despicable.

Dressed in pyjamas with a fresh cup of tea in hand, Sherlock sat at his desk to check his email. Besides three from potential clients that were not worth his time, there was a notification of a new post on John’s blog. The time stamp showed two am. Insomnia. Possible PTSD. Wouldn’t be a far stretch for a veteran with a gunshot wound.

Sherlock clicked the link.

_Something happened today. Something unexpected. I think those are the best moments, the ones you don’t expect, the ones you never imagined, never dared to hope for._

_Then again, everything seems unexpected since nothing ever happens to me. Except today. At least it felt like it._

_I was at work and this tall public school type bloke just walked in and… I don’t know, I may be imagining things but it felt like there was… something. He was there for a few minutes, but it felt like hours._

_I take pride in my professionalism and have never had issues with customers. But this one… he made me struggle._

_He said he was shopping with a friend. I don’t know many friends who buy each other 300 pounds worth of lingerie. Just seems a bit strange. Then again, who am I to judge. To each his own._

_It’s all fine really._

Sherlock stared at his screen, teacup halfway to his mouth.

This was unexpected.

John had thought of Sherlock last night, enough to write a blog post about it. What else had he done last night? Had he touched himself as well?

Sherlock shook his head. Whatever John thought about why Sherlock had bought Molly lingerie was irrelevant. What was most pressing was the fact that he would inevitably run into John. The shop was still involved, which meant he would be brought in for interrogation. Sherlock wondered, in a panic, if he should quit the case altogether.

No. Sherlock wasn’t about to abandon a serial killer case because his transport got overwhelmed over something that had nothing to do with the investigation.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the tips of his fingers on his lips.

Maybe he had been going about this the wrong way. John’s expertise could be quite helpful with the investigation. After all, it would be unwise not to take advantage of any asset that could help catch the murderer and save lives.

Would John even be interested in helping? Of course he would, he was a doctor and a soldier. If nothing else those two facts screamed “I want to save people.”

Bringing John on the case meant telling him Sherlock had been undercover the day before. That wouldn’t necessarily go well. It would probably be best not to discuss it during John’s shift. He could ask John to come back to his apartment and explain while showing him the case file.

For the case. Of course.

Problem was, involving John in the case meant he would see Sherlock… being himself. Most people didn’t like Sherlock.

Then again, most people were boring. John wasn’t boring.

Sherlock needed to prepare.

* * *

 

Two hours later, Sherlock found himself across the street from the store. He was smoking his second cigarette in a row, rehearsing chosen words in his head. It was a precaution, to have prepared words, to prevent himself from saying anything accidentally insulting.

And in case Sherlock got… distracted.

The wind ruffled the lace on the mannequins as Sherlock pushed through the red door. He nodded to the owner behind the counter. By the way she smiled, she recognized him.

The blue-haired woman was there as well, greeting him warmly. He asked her about something for his friend for her birthday. She pointed to a set of white bra and knickers Molly had been interested in the day before. Might as well have a back-up bribe for more body parts.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock left his purchases at the counter and made his way to the corridor that led to the next room.

He heard John’s voice before he saw him. He was serving another customer. They were in front of the rope display discussing options. Sherlock listened closely, curious to see how he interacted with other patrons. His blog post had implied that the encounter with Sherlock was an anomaly, but was that true?

“Like I said, it depends what you and your partner are looking for. This cotton braid is soft and easy to knot, but the knots get compacted easily and make them hard to untie. You’d need to keep scissors or shears close. The polypropylene braid is a bit more expensive, but the knots don’t compact as easily, and it feels great on skin. Here.” John slid the rope on the back of the man’s hand. “See how smooth it is? It’s also rated, I’d recommend this one if you plan to do suspensions.”

All Sherlock wanted to do was step out then, disturb them, but he stayed hidden. Starting the conversation like that wouldn't help. Before long, a rope was selected (cotton) and the patron left without looking at Sherlock as he passed.

The room fell silent except for rustling as John rearranged the rope display. Sherlock cursed the nervous tension in his body, took a breath and stepped out.

Prepared words fell short on his lips as he saw John stretch to hang a coil of bright red rope. It made his tight black t-shirt reveal a stripe of skin above his jeans. Jeans that also did delightful things to his arse.

Hours of preparation rendered useless with a look.

Sherlock wanted to be angry about it, but right now he— Oh no John was turning around.

“John,” Sherlock blurted out, trying to seem like he wasn’t just standing there staring.

“Sherlock.” John sounded surprised, taking a small step forward. “I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon.” He cleared his throat and went behind the glass counter.

“How did you know I’d come back at all?” Sherlock followed him.

Even with the counter between them, it barely reduced the tension, the pull, between them.

John licked his lips. Did he know he was staring at the display of leather collars?

“I was hoping, to be honest.” John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock before looking away.

Hoping to see him again? It was one thing to read it on John’s blog. It was another to get an outright admission.

“Oh, well. I was also hoping to run into you again.” Sherlock admitted.

John looked up then and something flickered, something… dark. As if he was about to devour Sherlock like a fine dish. John flattened his hands on the glass counter, accentuating the pull of his black t-shirt over the muscles of his shoulders and arms. He licked his lips as he let himself lean closer to Sherlock.

“I’m flattered.”

John must have been aware of the effect he was having on Sherlock. He felt like a textbook list of arousal symptoms: elevated heartrate, sensation of heat, dilated pupils.

“What can I help you with?” John said as he eyed Sherlock from head to toe.

Lives were at stake, and all Sherlock could think of was asking to get spanked again.

Case. Words. _Focus_.

“I need your help.” Sherlock was grateful his voice sounded normal.

John tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“A consultation.”

John leaned back, cautious.

“What type of consultation?”

Sherlock noted the tense tone in John’s voice. This was where things got tricky.

“It’s best if we discuss this in private. After your shift maybe?”

John’s shoulders fell then, his eyes filled with disappointment. Sherlock felt panic rise. What had he said?

John took his hands off the counter. “Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression yesterday, but I’m not for hire.” 

“For hire?” Was this a BDSM term he wasn’t familiar with?

John pursed his lips. “You can’t hire me to be your Dom.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He shook his head frantically. “That—that’s not-no—” Wait, you can rent a Dom? “No, that’s not what I’m here about.”

John crossed his arms. “Why are you here then?”

“To solve a murder.” Sherlock blurted out. “Multiple murders.”

Damnit, he was supposed to stick to the script.

John looked around the room before turning back to Sherlock. “You pulling my leg or something?”

“I’m not. But it’s best we don’t discuss the details here. Come by my flat, after your shift, I’ll show you the case, and then you can decide if you want to help or not.”

“Show me the case?” John looked unimpressed. “That’s it? That’s your pitch? You think you can waltz in here, make some mysterious offer and expect me to come to your flat after my shift, just like that? Is this some sort of covert scene? I didn’t consent to this.”

This was going terribly wrong. Not just because of the misunderstanding, but because of the disappointment beneath John’s anger. Sherlock was used to disappointing people, but he wasn't used to, well, caring about it. 

John took a step back. Sherlock attempted to follow, finding himself pressed into the counter instead. He leaned over it, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Have you heard of Julie Rayahs?”

John looked to the side and sighed. “Yeah, read about her in the papers.”

“Are you aware there were two other bodies found with the exact M.O.?”

John shook his head.

“Or that they all made purchases in this shop within 36 hours of their deaths?” 

John's eyes widened momentarily. 

“You think I’m a suspect?”

“If I did, I’d be an idiot to involve you in the case.”

“Or clever.”

Sherlock conceded the point with a non-committal tip of his head.

“Why me, though? Shouldn’t you be talking to the owner?”

Good. John was asking the right questions.

“As an Army doctor, not to mention your expertise in the,” Sherlock waved to the various objects in the room, “lifestyle, I believe you would be an asset to the investigation.”

“How did you know ab—? Right, you work for the Yard.”

“No,” Sherlock corrected him, “the Yard consults me.”

“I didn’t know the police consulted amateurs.”

“They don’t.”

John’s brow wrinkled, clenching his jaw as he considered Sherlock’s words. Whatever sexual tension there might have been had dissipated. But it did nothing to relieve the tension in the room.

“When you came in yesterday, you already had a file on me or something?”

Against his better judgement, Sherlock decided to be honest.

“No. I saw everything I needed to know in the first twenty seconds of meeting you.”

John scoffed. “Is that so?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. It was too late now, might as well show off before John kicked him out for solicitation.

“I can see your medical history in the calluses on your hands, and your Army training by your haircut and the way you hold yourself. The fading tan lines on your wrists say recently discharged. Gunshot wound, left shoulder—” No need to tell John that wasn’t a deduction. “Which explains the tremor in your hand and why you didn’t try to look for a job in healthcare. Instead you chose to come back to an old job, which you knew could provide you with the high-adrenaline lifestyle that you have grown addicted to, especially while you were in… was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable insult that was to come.

Only it didn’t.

Rather than answering the question, calling Sherlock a freak, or worse, John tilted his head and smiled. Not a wide smile, and certainly not a happy one.

A threat.

How in the bloody hell was John managing to make that sexy?

Sherlock wavered between panic and arousal. To his own horror, he pulled himself to his full height, placed both hands on the counter and loomed over John as he whispered harshly.

“You see? The police don’t consult amateurs. Now, if you’re satisfied, we can focus on the investigation. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the customers by openly discussing murders, which is why I originally suggested that we discuss this in a more private setting. For actual work.” Sherlock added pointedly.

Somehow, John’s smiling threat intensified.

Somehow, it made Sherlock’s cock harder.

He needed to leave. Now.

Sherlock pulled out a business card, white with his name printed in black capital letters in the centre. It had his number and address handwritten on the back.

He slid it across the counter to John.

“Come over. Let you fill me— Let me fill you in on the case, and then decide if you want to help stop a murderer.”

Oh god. There was no way John missed that slip.

Leave. Now.

With a last nod, Sherlock turned and walked away, leaving his card on the counter.

He didn’t want to go. The dangerous look in John’s eyes was mesmerizing. What would John do if Sherlock pushed? Would he punch him? Would he spank him?

Instead of sticking around to see, Sherlock grabbed his purchases at the cash register and walked out the door.

He fought the temptation to look back, because he knew John was there. He could feel his eyes, watching, just like the day before.

* * *

 

Thankfully, Sherlock managed to get himself together during his cab ride to Bart’s, to get the promised bag of body parts from Molly.

However, once home, after three failed attempts to focus on his experiment, Sherlock put away the remaining ears in the fridge with the rest of his goody bag and dedicated himself to estimating how long it would take for John to text him after work.

Come to think of it, he should probably hide that mould experiment too.

Two hours later, Sherlock had cleaned up most of the kitchen and sitting room. Well, at least he had clean cups for tea, enough space to walk around without risking tripping, and the armchairs were available to actually sit in.

Sherlock almost dropped the stack of papers he was holding, when his text alert went off.

Almost six thirty. Much longer than he’d guessed.

_What time?_

No greeting, straight to business. Well, at least he was coming.

_7:30 -SH_

_Fine._

Sherlock held the phone between his palms and pressed the tip of his fingers against his mouth. He stared at the cobweb on the ceiling before heading into the sitting room. He should get Mrs Hudson’s broom for that.

Rather than doing so, Sherlock took the bondage strangler case file from the desk, and spread the pictures out on the coffee table.

* * *

 

Sherlock was playing violin in front of the window when John turned the street corner. He was wearing a black coat with a leather piece on the right shoulder. A timeless durable choice. It said a lot about John and suited him perfectly.

He crossed the street, and rather than walking up to the black door, John paused. Hands deep in his pockets, he stood on the sidewalk. Sherlock stopped playing and hid behind the curtain to watch. John looked up and down the sidewalk, at the building, eyes travelling along the windows and ending their path on the black door with the crooked knocker once more.

Oscillation on the pavement. A love affair? Did John have a relationship with one of the victims? How could Sherlock have missed that? That made little sense with his latest blog post—

Oh. _Oh_.

Right, well, that explained why John was questioning his own judgement. Sherlock was doing the same.

Seconds stretched as Sherlock waited, the anticipation of John’s decision the sole focus of his attention. Suddenly, John raised his chin, straightened his back, lowered his shoulders, and with the ease that only came with years of training and experience, marched to the door.

The doorbell rang in the corridor, echoing up the stairs and raising the hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

All at once, this whole venture seemed completely insane. What had he done? He’d never needed help before. He was perfectly capable of solving this case on his own. How had he convinced himself that including John was a good idea?

It was too late now. Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson’s door opening, spurring him into motion. He put away his violin and sat on the couch, picked up the crime scene pictures and sorted through them, placing them in order while he listened to Mrs Hudson greet John and usher him upstairs.

He finished arranging the pictures while John walked up to the open door of the sitting room.

“Finally, you’re here. Look at these and tell me what you see.”

Sherlock didn’t look up, didn’t get up from the couch. He just held out the pictures to John while reaching for the case file with his free hand. He hoped his desperate uncertainty would come across as confidence.

Sherlock held his breath, long enough to give John a moment to take the pictures, before releasing it slowly through his nose.

The pictures stayed untouched.

Giving in, Sherlock looked up at John. He remained standing, staring at the skull on the mantle. He had changed, showered. His hair was styled differently than—  

 _Focus_.

John turned to Sherlock then. In contrast to earlier, the tension between them wasn’t fuelled by arousal. Not with the look in John’s eye, the tension in his shoulders.

He held John’s discerning stare, keeping his arm immobile even though he was starting to feel the strain in his muscles.

With a pinch of his lips, John took off his coat. He hung it next to Sherlock’s, took the pictures, and sat down on the couch next to Sherlock. 

Oh. Sherlock hadn’t thought John would sit that close. It wasn’t unwelcomed but, well, he was sitting exactly where—  

 _Focus_.

“Alright. I’m here.” John sniffed. “Fill me in.”

Sherlock didn’t need to look at John to know he was smiling at his choice of words. He could hear it in his voice.

 _Case_.

Sherlock pointed to the file spread out on the coffee table. “Scotland Yard is currently investigating three murders. The victims were all found strangled, tied to their beds.” He pointed to the pictures in John’s hands. “Those are the crime scene pictures that require your medical expertise. Your knowledge of bondage could also be helpful.”

John set down the pictures on the table and leaned his elbows on his knees. “So let me get this straight: after twenty seconds with me, you knew I wasn’t the murderer and still went through with testing multiple spanking tools. And then you came back the next day to convince me to help you with your investigation.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look. “Why?”

How was he supposed to answer? If John could stop looking at him like that, then maybe he could _think_.

What finally came out was, “You were… a pleasant surprise.” Which was a colossal understatement.

The hard look in John’s eyes softened. It was the truth. In every sense of the word. Sherlock never could have imagined meeting anyone like John, in any circumstances.

John leaned back, his eyes going from Sherlock to the skull. He still looked wary.

“With your fields of expertise, you would be an asset to the investigation. I’d be foolish not to ask.” Sherlock leaned back in the couch with what he hoped was a calm and composed face.

He waited for John to turn to him, then nodded towards the pictures. “Look at those and tell me what you see.”

There it was again, the trepidation, waiting to see if John would take the pictures. Would accept working with Sherlock.

With a shake of his head, John took the pictures.

Sherlock wanted to jump for joy. He contented himself with smiling while John couldn’t see. Due to the rather gruesome images, John now wore the look of a man resigned to do what needs to be done to save lives. Sherlock knew John must have seen awful things during his time in the battlefield, but it clearly didn’t make the pictures any easier for him to look at.

After the fifth picture, the wide shot of the crime scene with the victim still in place, John cleared his throat, straightened his back and took a deep breath. “Was there any DNA evidence at the scene?”

Sherlock bit back his excitement. _Here we go._

“None besides the victims’, which is why this is taking so long.”

“Any signs of rape?”

“No.”

“Strangled.”

“Obviously.”

“All three?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Anything notable in the blood work?”

“Nothing besides negligible traces of alcohol.”

John hummed and squinted at a picture of the knots around the victim’s wrists. He shuffled through to the pictures of the knots on the ankles and looked concerned.

“What is it?”

John didn’t look up. “These… these aren’t proper knots.”

“I believe the victims would argue otherwise.”

“I mean, the type of knot, this is all wrong for a bondage scene. It’s done too tight, cutting off circulation, which is why her hands are blueish.” John rubbed his wrists as he spoke. “And she wasn’t given any slack. She could barely move her arms and legs, just spread out, defenceless.” His tone was full of disgust. “These aren’t made to be undone, you have to cut the rope, and I haven’t seen any picture of scissors or a knife.”

“There weren’t any,” Sherlock confirmed with a grave voice.

John dropped the pictures on the table and stood. He made his way around the table and started pacing, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his lips.

John shook his head. “Damnit, I thought it was an urban legend.”

“What was?”

With a heavy sigh, John stopped pacing and placed both hands on his hips. With his head down, he took a deep breath before looking at Sherlock.

“This is what we call a poser. He isn’t part of the lifestyle, he’s using it as a hunting ground to lure subs and kill them.”

“Hm. Clever.”

Sherlock hadn’t thought of that avenue. The same principle could be applied at the shop. This was definitely worth looking into.

Sherlock noticed John stare.

“What?”

John sniffed and took a small step forward. “Did you just call the murderer clever?”

“Possible serial killer in this case, and yes, I find the method clever. Most serial killers are, or they would get caught after the first kill.”

John looked disturbed. “So this is how you get off? Chasing murderers?”

Sherlock was used to people misunderstanding this about him. It was almost a habit to keep up the façade, letting them think he was a psychopath. It kept them out of his way.

He didn’t want to push John away. But the man came here expecting the worst, might as well give it all. See if he still stayed.

“I don’t experience any erotic satisfaction when chasing thieves and murderers. What I enjoy is a good puzzle. Something that engages my mind. With your help, we’ll solve it faster. Ideally before he kills again.”

John took a step back and crossed his arms. Sherlock watched him weigh his options.

“You think he’s somehow tied to the shop?”

“Balance of probability. It’s a good place to meet people.”

John gave him a knowing look. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“How many employees does _Il Bolero_ have?”

“Six.”

“Do you believe any of them could do something like this?”

John didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Has anyone been laid off recently? Anyone that worked there prior to these dates?” Sherlock pointed to the file.

John sat back down on the couch. Sherlock could feel the cushion dip beneath him as John shifted closer to the table. He was closer this time, his thigh so close Sherlock could feel its warmth.

John’s eyes went over the numbers. “February… We were in Dublin. Then May with the— and last week?” John turned to Sherlock. “These all match with dates we had to call in temps.”

The threat was back in John’s voice. But it was different than earlier. He was clenching his jaw and looking to the left—

 _Ah_!

“What’s his name?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have someone in mind. What’s his name?”

John had that look again, the one where he wanted to say something but didn't. Sherlock was too distracted by how close they were to deduce what John might be holding back. If only John turned just a bit more—

“He goes by Hank.” John cleared his throat. “I don’t know his real name. But June probably does.”

“June?”

“The owner.”

“Right. Of course.”

This collaboration was proving to be much more fruitful than anticipated, even if Sherlock was struggling with his attraction to John. The important thing was that they now had a lead.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and quickly stood so John wouldn’t notice his hands were shaking. He still couldn’t believe John was collaborating.

“I’ll text Lestrade.”

“Who?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, simply grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

He didn’t ask, didn’t give John the option to think about whether or not he wanted to follow Sherlock to the Yard. If he kept up the action, John would follow.

He hoped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "case".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. I try to post every week, but you know, shit happens.  
> Enjoy!

The cab ride to the Yard was insufferable.

Sherlock needed to think about the case, and all he could focus on was John.

Not that John was being distracting; quite the opposite in fact. He was on the other side of the back seat, looking out the window. He wasn’t asking questions or making attempts at small talk, which was concerning. John should be nervous, worried, something. Instead, he watched the streets of London with an air of content. It should have been a pleasure, sitting in silence, but Sherlock was fretting too much to be able to enjoy it.

The sight of New Scotland Yard had never elicited so much relief, nor had the cold wind on Sherlock’s face. As he stepped out of the cab, the sensation grounded him, helped him calm down, but didn’t prevent him from noticing the way John’s hair looked as it ruffled in the wind.

Sherlock led the way to Lestrade’s office. He didn’t bother knocking, just opened the door and walked in. Lestrade, who was eating a donut with his feet on his desk, rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you already, you can’t just barge in here and- ” Lestrade noticed John then. In one swift movement his feet were off the desk, and he swallowed his bite, straightening himself into a professional posture. “Who’s this?”

John stepped forward. “John Watson.”

Lestrade wiped his hands as he stood. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” And shook John’s hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure.” Lestrade squinted. “You a friend of Sherlock’s?”

“A consultant.” Sherlock corrected.

“Consultant?” Lestrade returned to his seat and signalled them to sit as well. “I didn’t think you consulted anyone but yourself.”

John took a seat, while Sherlock chose to stand behind the empty chair, leaning his hands on the backrest. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not an expert in everything.”

Sherlock could tell that Lestrade had another cutting remark on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock leaned back, enough to be out of John’s range of vision, and gave Lestrade an imploring look. Thankfully, he changed the subject.

“And Mr. Watson is here to consult about what exactly?”

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock corrected, “is a BDSM specialist.”

Whatever Lestrade was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. Not with the way his eyebrows rose high up his forehead. John, who had acted like a proper soldier since they had stepped into Lestrade’s office, now seemed to find the situation a bit funny. He kept a straight face, but Sherlock could see it in his eyes. The man was clearly open about his lifestyle if he not only worked at _Il Bolero_ and blogged about BDSM. This couldn’t be the first time he had watched someone react to the news.

Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock a few times, then leaned his elbows on his desk.

“How did you two meet, exactly?”

Sherlock wanted to respond, he was planning to, but John turned to him then, and he had this whisper of a smile on his lips as he raised an eyebrow. The room where he had locked away every distracting memory and fantasy about John burst open then. They flashed one after the other, mixing together memories of saying “Yes”, the whistling sound of the riding crop, the pain of the wood paddle, the look in John’s eye when he left that first day. Whatever he had planned to say did not make it further than an inhale of breath.

“I work at _Il Bolero_.” John provided instead.

Lestrade eye’s lingered on Sherlock before he turned to John and shrugged. “Haven’t heard of it.”

“You should have,” Sherlock said once he managed to push the memories aside. “All three victims made purchases there within 36 hours of their death.”

“They-” Lestrade’s jaw clenched. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. Next time you get divorced, try not to let it affect your work so much.” Sherlock picked a lint from his coat sleeve. “I would have expected a quick skim of the credit card receipts from Anderson, but not from you.”

Even though daggers were coming from Lestrade’s eyes, Sherlock was more concerned about John, who had crossed his arms with a disapproving look. What was it exactly that bothered John? Withholding evidence, or the divorce comment? It didn’t matter. If Sherlock wanted Lestrade to approve John as a consultant, it was best to steer clear of comments regarding his personal life (or lack thereof).

Lestrade crossed his arms. “Besides the fact that I could arrest you for obstruction, we can’t use a suspect as a specialist.”

Sherlock stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “He’s obviously innocent, and he has a lead.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I need the proper paperwork to support that claim. You know all this.”

Bloody procedures. This was exactly why Sherlock worked as a private consultant.

“If you interrogate Dr. Watson now and determine his innocence, will that clear him to work as my consultant?”

Lestrade leaned his elbows on his desk and took a long look at Sherlock. He didn’t look angry, which was a good thing, but he had this glint in his eye that Sherlock was weary of.

Lestrade stood. “It’s not standard procedure, but it should work.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and stopped himself just in time. Why was Lestrade being so amenable? He didn’t normally agree this quickly.

“Follow me.”

Lestrade led the way to interrogation room two. He unlocked the door and held it open, but stopped Sherlock’s entry with a hand on his chest.

“Not you.”

Sherlock didn’t want to risk having Lestrade change his mind, so he kept his mouth shut.

Lestrade waved John into the room. “I’ll be right in.” He closed the door and pointed to the viewing room. “You go in there.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re gonna start having your boyfriend around for cases, I want to talk to him alone.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he shook his head quickly. “No, no, he’s not my-”

“I don’t need the details.” Lestrade raised a hand to cut Sherlock off. “Not with his area of expertise. Now go in there and behave or I’m taking you off the case for conflict of interest.”

“But he’s not my-”

“Go. Now.” Lestrade gave him a pointed look and disappeared into the interrogation room.

Sherlock stood agape in the corridor, staring at the closed door.

How could Lestrade have possibly thought Sherlock’s motivations were anything other than in service of the case? He wouldn't involve just anyone in his Work, especially not a serial killer case. It was disappointing really, that Lestrade could be so small-minded. All Sherlock did was suggest that they-

Ah.

Sherlock had asked nicely rather than demanding. That’s why Lestrade thought John was his...

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock stepped into the darkened room and faced the one-way mirror. John was sitting at the stainless-steel table, facing the mirror. Lestrade was in front of him with a notepad and a recorder, which he turned on before he began.

“Name, age and occupation.”

“John H. Watson. 37. I work as a clerk at Il Bolero.”

Lestrade wrote everything down on the notepad. “For how long?”

“Almost eight months now. But I worked there for three years before I was shipped out. I’m grateful they took me back.”

Lestrade looked up. “Shipped out? You were in the Army?”

John nodded. “Captain in the RAMC.”

Even though all he could see was Lestrade’s back, Sherlock could tell he was impressed by the way he straightened.

“Where?”

John’s eyes flickered to the mirror. “Afghanistan.”

Sherlock felt stunned into place. Of course John knew he was watching. But it still felt like he was staring directly at him.

“Why did you come back?”

John clenched his jaw when his left hand spasmed. He pulled it off the table onto his lap.

“I got shot.”

Lestrade shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Why work as a sales clerk? Aren’t you a bit overqualified for that job?”

John crossed his arms. “They said the same thing at the clinic.”

Lestrade huffed a laugh. “They didn’t take you at the clinic?”

“No, they did. I lasted a month.”

“How come?”

John pursed his lips as he looked to the side. “After years in a war zone, spending your day treating runny noses is, well, a bit boring, really.”

“But a BDSM shop...”

John eyes flickered to the mirror again. “Less boring.”

Sherlock gasped. Clearly that was meant for him. But what did it mean? That he didn’t find Sherlock boring? Okay, that was a good thing but, could it mean… more?

The thought distracted Sherlock enough for the fantasies to wash over him again. At least this time he was alone in a dark soundproof room. Watching John getting interrogated. Oh dear, this was not the time to start imagining Sherlock getting interrogated by John.

“Where were you the night of February 3rd?” Lestrade asked.

“At a convention in Dublin.”

“And the night of May 18th?”

“Teaching a class.”

“What class?”

John look at the mirror. “Intermediate Bondage.”

The scribbling sound coming from Lestrade’s notepad slowed as Sherlock blew out a long breath. It was starting to get hot in the viewing room, and it had everything to do with the way John was managing to keep a straight face with that playful look in his eye.

“Until what time?”

“I closed the place at around 1 am.”

“Isn’t that a bit late for a class?”

A small smile pulled at John’s lips as he looked at the mirror. “Not for a bondage class.”

Lestrade paused before writing down John’s answer. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. His own imagination was having a field day. He had lingered in the bondage part of his research, intrigued by the ingenuity, the artistic possibilities with the colour choices. How would it feel on his skin, soft rope holding him into place, exactly like John wanted him?

“How-” Lestrade cleared his throat. “How about last Friday?”

John wasn’t looking away.

“The shop was hosting a BDSM party.”

“And you were, what, bartending?”

John leaned back in his chair. “No, I was part of the lineup.”

“Lineup?”

“Yeah, we, uh,” John tipped his head a bit. “We put on a little show for the crowd. June, the owner, she likes to call it the staff talent show.”

Talent show?

“Talent show?”

“Yup.”

John pulled his eyes away from the mirror and looked at Lestrade, as if daring him to ask what talent he showcased. Sherlock oscillated between hoping Lestrade would, and that he wouldn’t. This needed to end soon, or he would lose control of his fantasies, and he wasn’t about to walk out of here with an erection.

Lestrade shifted in his chair. “What time did you get home?”

“Around eight in the morning. The whole staff stayed after closing to clean up, then we went out for breakfast.”

Lestrade put down his pen and leaned his elbows on the table. “So who’s your suspect?”

“Hank.” John replied. “I don’t know if that’s his real name. He’s one of the temps we called to fill in during those three events.”

“Why him?”

John shrugged. “Never trusted him. Something always felt off.”

Lestrade leaned back. “We can’t just go off a hunch.”

For God’s sake.

Sherlock slammed the intercom button. “Do you have any other leads?”

John was startled by Sherlock’s interruption, his entire body going tense as he stared at the mirror. The look Lestrade shot over his shoulder made Sherlock suspect he'd expected it sooner. Lestrade sighed.

“Fine.”

* * *

 

Lestrade had the good sense to ask June to bring the employee files with her to the precinct. The payslips confirmed that Hank had worked the entire week leading up to each murder. Once more, Lestrade agreed suspiciously quickly with Sherlock that they should head to Hank’s flat immediately.

That’s when Sherlock discovered Hank was a terrible criminal. Well, for his standards anyway.

They knocked at the address in the employee file, and soon after heard the tell-tale noises of someone making a run for it. Obviously guilty. His door wasn’t even locked. Pitiful. Hank was attempting to climb the fire escape when Sherlock barged in, ignoring Lestrade shouting that they didn’t have a warrant. A glimpse around the apartment was enough to confirm they had the right man. He ran to the fire escape after Hank.

Sherlock followed him down the ladder to the alley, where he easily caught up. He tackled Hank next to a skip full of broken furniture, a bit too close to a wooden chair leg. Sherlock barely saw the hit coming, and certainly wasn’t expecting Hank to hit so hard. The explosive pain in his skull made him release his grip on Hank’s legs and scramble away, anticipating a second blow that never came.

Instead there were shouts and a cry of pain. Sherlock sat up as quickly as he could to see what had happened, only to be caught by a wave of nausea. He breathed through it, his vision slowly coming into focus.

Hank was face down, his arm twisted behind his back by John, who was straddling his hips.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Where did John come from?

Hank kept struggling under John, all while explaining in a quite colourful way how he would take his revenge on them. John leaned closer to Hank’s head, twisting his arm a bit further, causing his words to turn into a painful cry.

“If I move to the left just a bit more, you’ll never use this arm again. I suggest you shut up and stop struggling.”

_Oh_.

Hank went still. John leaned back and looked around. Hard eyes went soft when he saw Sherlock.

“You alright?”

It took a moment for Sherlock to register John’s words. He was about to nod when his head throbbed. “Fine. Maybe a concussion.”

John shook his head, but he was smiling. “You’re a madman, you know that?”

“You’re the one who invaded Afghanistan.”

To Sherlock’s amazement, John started giggling.

_Giggling_. While holding down a murderer.

Sherlock knew right then and there that he wanted this. With John. To chase criminals together and laugh at concussions and go home and-

“Sherlock! You alright?” Lestrade shouted, jogging towards them.

Sherlock cursed Lestrade’s loud voice and timing.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock slurred a bit.

“No, you are not fine, you’re bleeding.”

Sherlock touched his forehead and stared at the blood smeared on his hand. How had did he not noticed? Definitely a concussion.

Lestrade crouched and whispered harshly. “Why the hell did you run off? We don’t have any evidence, I can’t arrest him.”

Sherlock frowned at the effort required to process what Lestrade had said. “Search his flat. I saw enough with one glance. Even Anderson will be able to build a case against him.”

Lestrade sighed and mumbled something under his breath as he went to cuff Hank. John helped Lestrade get Hank to his feet, then went to Sherlock while Lestrade walked Hank to his car.

John knelt in front of Sherlock. “Hey, can you look at me?”

Sherlock blinked up slowly at John. Well, the fuzzy outline of John.

“Any pain?”

“Headache.”

“How’s your vision?”

“Blurry.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Hank’s flat. Alley.”

John gently placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, and angled it to look at the wound. All Sherlock could focus on was the look on John’s face. Once it stopped being blurry. It echoed the same concern as the day before, but instead of being fuelled by arousal, it seemed… fond.

“Looks like you have a mild concussion, and that’s going to need some stitches. Can you stand?”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock was mostly sure John made a face, but didn’t say anything, just wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Come on, let’s get you up. Ready?”

“Yes.”

The fact they were saying the same words as yesterday’s spanking wasn’t lost on Sherlock. In a swift movement, Sherlock was on his feet, but felt himself sway. John’s arm tightened around his waist, pulling him closer. It was comforting, having the warm press of John’s body against-

“I can drop you off at the A&E.” Lestrade offered.

“No.” Sherlock snapped. Did Lestrade need to talk so loudly? And how did he get back so fast? “No hospital.”

Going to the hospital meant John would leave. The sinking feeling made Sherlock dizzy. The case was over. He didn’t want it to be over.

“I could do it.” John’s tone was casual, which threw off Sherlock’s sorrow. It took him a moment for the implications of John’s offer to sink in.

John’s hand shifted on Sherlock’s waist. Eyes flickered to lips.

“Alright.” Sherlock answered softly.

John didn’t reply, simply nodded, but the hand on Sherlock’s waist tightened a bit before ushering him forward.

“Just need to stop by my place to get supplies.”

“No need. I have everything at the flat.”

John chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”

Despite Sherlock’s bloody face, they managed to get a cab. It took a while, but Sherlock didn’t mind, not if it meant staying in John’s arms.

Perhaps it was the concussion, or because John was sitting so close, but Sherlock let himself enjoy it. His head fell back, his shoulder pressed against John’s while he asked about the pain, checked his pulse, his pupils, all while murmuring encouragements. John’s cajoling was surprisingly pleasant. Which was odd to Sherlock, considering how irritating it could be coming from Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock should stop expecting John to act like most people. Most people aren’t calm during a murder investigation, not as a suspect and especially not while tackling a serial killer. Then again, John chose to be a medic in a warzone. It should have been obvious from the start that he was not like most people.

Once at the flat, Sherlock relied on John a bit more than necessary when climbing the stairs. His body was craving John’s contact and a perfect excuse to indulge. He knew it was selfish, given how John massaged his shoulder once Sherlock was settled on the couch. But John didn’t complain, simply asked where the med kit was, and off he went, moving about 221b Baker Street as if he lived there. Sherlock assumed his easy adaptability came from years spent making do with what was on hand.

The coffee table was arranged with a pot of water, washcloth, and the med kit before John moved the lamp closer. He then did one last trip to get a glass of water and paracetamol before taking a seat on the coffee table, facing Sherlock.

“Here.” John handed Sherlock the pills and glass of water. While Sherlock drank, John reached for latex gloves in the med kit, causing his knees to brush against Sherlock’s.

The fact that he was holding a glass of water helped Sherlock resist the urge to slip his hands to John’s thighs. Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and kept them closed when he heard John slipping on the gloves. It was preferable not to let his imagination get the best of him with that one.

John started by cleaning the blood on Sherlock’s face and neck. The touch was so gentle that, even with his headache, Sherlock could feel himself relaxing.

“Why did you refuse to go to the hospital?”

The question snapped Sherlock out of his musings. He blinked up at John, who was gently dabbing at the blood on his cheek. The lamp was so close to John’s head it made his hair shine gold, but the angle cast a shadow over his eyes.

“I spent enough time there.”

Sherlock didn’t want to tell John about his overdoses. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes. John hummed as he put aside the soiled cloth. Thankfully he didn’t insist. Sherlock watched his nimble fingers prepare the local anaesthetic as the lamp warmed his wet skin.

“Thank you, by the way.”

John looked up, face partially hidden by his shoulder. “Something tells me you’d be stupid enough to attempt to stitch yourself up.”

Sherlock was about to protest, but he fell silent when John cocked an eyebrow.

“Maybe.”

With a shake of his head, John turned to Sherlock with the syringe in hand.

“Hold still.”

There was a slight sting as the needle pierced his skin, but it soon disappeared under the effects of the anaesthetic. John put aside the soiled syringe to prepare the needle and thread. Sherlock appreciated the efficiency of his movements. Warzones weren’t a place of leisure.

Tools in hand, John faced Sherlock. “You shouldn’t feel a thing.”

Sherlock found himself disappointed. He had come to associate pain as an enjoyable thing if John was involved. Although stitches were unlikely to produce the same effects as a spanking. Sherlock’s disappointment dissolved when John leaned in close and started working. So very close. He could feel John’s breath tickle his nose, and his mouth was in front of Sherlock’s eyes. He licked his lips. Sherlock found himself doing the same, his hands gripping the couch cushion tightly. To distract himself from his growing arousal, Sherlock started rambling.

“It’s deplorable how the case turned out so disappointing. In my experience, serial killers are usually much cleverer. I once worked on a bombing case which took six days to find his bunker. Of course, it was rigged. Almost lost an arm.”

John eyed Sherlock quickly while he tied the first knot.

“So you’re always this reckless.”

“Reckless? I’m not reckless.”

“Yes. You are.” John said as he worked. “You ignored an officer of the law, then ran off alone after Hank without saying a thing.”

“You were following.”

“And a good thing I was, or you would have definitely ended up in the hospital. But I’m not always going to be there.”

“You could be.”

John stopped moving.

Sherlock bit his lip. He hadn’t expected that to come out. He’d been thinking about it, of course, but this wasn’t how he would have chosen to say something. And certainly not while getting stitches.

“You want me to keep working cases with you?”

Fuelled by nervousness, Sherlock’s rambling continued.

“Your participation exceeded expectations. It would be logical to pursue the venture. I suspect the presence of a doctor will also help with a few dim-witted people I have the misfortune of working with; it will force them to accept my deductions as gospel, even though my intellect should be qualification enough. Obviously, your physical prowess is also valuable, as demonstrated today when-”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock’s mouth closed with a plop. He looked up at John, wide-eyed. Even with the warm glow of the lamp on John’s face, his blue eyes looked icy. A rather large lump lodged itself in Sherlock’s throat.

John finished the last stitch, cut off the excess thread, and pulled away. Sherlock watched him closely as he set down his tools and prepared a bandage. He didn’t look upset, but his jaw was clenched.

“You don’t look like the type that works well with others, you’re reckless, and bit of a brat.”

Sherlock looked down and remained that way while John bandaged him.

John pulled off his latex gloves, laid his hands on his own thighs, and looked at Sherlock. “Quite honestly, that was the most fun I’ve had since, God, I’m not even sure.”

Sherlock looked up, hopeful.

“However.”

Of course it was too good to be true.

“You came in yesterday, tried a few paddles, then bought three hundred pounds worth of lingerie for your friend. The next day you came back, talked me into the investigation, then bought more lingerie. So is she really just a friend, or do you have a lingerie fetish?”

Sherlock was on the edge of panic. He should have addressed this as soon as he had read John mention the lingerie on his blog. Although admittedly, he wasn’t expecting John to make it this far.

“It’s for body parts.”

Sherlock regretted his hasty choice of words at the alarmed look on John’s face.

“Not hers, obviously. Organ donors. Molly works at the morgue. I bought her the clothes as a thank you for her help with the case. She insisted it was too much and gave me body parts in exchange. I bought more the next day as a bribe for later.”

John pursed his lips. “What do you need body parts for?”

“To experiment on. For research.”

“For your website?”

Sherlock blinked. “You found my website?”

“Yeah. I looked you up, before texting you. You know, in case you were some sort of murdering psychopath.”

So _that’s_ why it had taken so long.

“And how did that turn out?”

“Well.” John looked to the side. “Pretty sure you’re not a murderer. But you’re definitely a bit mad.”

Sherlock felt himself blush when John’s eyes met his.

“Is mad acceptable?”

John licked his lips. “Mad can be good.”

Sherlock fought to keep calm. “Good.”

The word lacked the depth and complexity of Sherlock’s sentiment, but Sherlock didn’t want to ruin whatever was happening by babbling.

“Good,” John echoed, his smile warming the word.

He started cleaning up the medical supplies, heading to the kitchen. He emptied the reddened water and blood-soaked flannel into the sink and started washing up.

“So, how often do you get cases?”

Sherlock wandered over and leaned woozily on the kitchen door frame. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Criminals.”

John eyed Sherlock over his shoulder, shook his head and went back to scrubbing. “Does that mean I have to wait until someone commits a crime to get a text from you?”

A few things happened simultaneously, and John noticed none of them. Sherlock’s eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open, and he found himself slipping off the door frame as the words registered.

Admittedly, Sherlock hadn’t thought that far, but John was right, it could take a while.

And here John was, offering an opening.

Sherlock had no idea what to do with it.

Well, he did, he had a very specific idea. One that was becoming more and more detailed with every minute spent with John. This was as good a time as any to say something. If he didn’t do it now, he probably never would.

John turned off the tap and dried his hands, his hip against the edge of the counter as he watched Sherlock.

Sherlock felt on the edge of the cliff all over again.

“Perhaps...”

Oh God, if only John would stop looking at him like that. Like he knew what Sherlock was about to say.

“Perhaps we, I mean, I-” God why was this so hard? “I would, I mean, I’m, well, I’m a bit curious about-”

John bit his lip, probably thinking Sherlock was the most ridiculous person in the world.

“I’d be interested in trying your lifestyle.” Sherlock blurted out.

John raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Living off an army pension and a store clerk’s wages?”

John’s smug look didn’t help Sherlock find the words, nor did it prevent a blush from spreading across his face.

“You know what I mean.”

John huffed a laugh and shook his head. “No. No, I don’t. I thought I did, but after what I’ve seen today, I haven’t got a clue.”

Sherlock jumped off the cliff before he had a chance to overthink it.

“I’d like to get spanked by you. Naked. Repeatedly.”

It was terrifying, saying those words. The admission filled Sherlock with a rush of adrenaline. They were just words but saying them out loud meant they were true. They weren’t just a fantasy. They had the potential to become real.

The risk was worth it just to see John’s reaction. It started with a soft, “Christ,” followed by his eyes falling half-lidded. His tongue made an appearance, sliding from one corner of his mouth to the other, pausing along the way, as if lost in thought.

Thoughts of spanking Sherlock. Naked. Repeatedly.

“Ideally in the near future.” Sherlock added, the prolonged silence making him uneasy. “If you’re amenable, of course.”

John looked up. With the desire that burned in his gaze, Sherlock was grateful he was leaning against something.

“I am.”

“Now?”

John chuckled. “You have a concussion, so no, but I’m free Sunday.”

Sunday. Three days from now.

“Good.” Sherlock wished his voice didn’t sound so strangled.

“Good.”

How was John managing to stay so calm and composed while looking at Sherlock as if he were his next meal?

“Did you have anything specific in mind?” John asked as he shifted against the counter, moving closer.

Sherlock frowned. “Spanking isn’t specific enough?”

“It is.” John cleared his throat. “It is, but some people like to set the mood first. Clothing, lighting, you know, make an evening of it.”

“That sounds… oddly romantic.”

John shrugged, shifting again. “It can be.”

Sherlock frowned. How can pain be romantic?

“The point is,” John continued, “were you only looking for a spanking?”

A multitude of items from Sherlock’s research popped into his head. It was probably best to ask John for clarification rather than expect paperwork.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to go straight to the spanking or do you want to work up to it?”

“What does that imply?”

“Kissing, foreplay, things like that.”

John needed to stop getting closer. Especially while Sherlock’s brain was enthusiastically providing other suggestions.

“I have no objections to those things.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

John pushed off the counter and stood at ease an arm’s length away from Sherlock.

“I assume you did some research for this case?”

Sherlock nodded.

“So you understand the concept of the relationship between a Dom and a Sub? The trust, respect, and communication that is involved?”

That explained John’s comment about recklessness.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me just to spank you, or act as your Dom?”

Sherlock knew exactly what John was asking, and he didn’t need to think about it. He already had.

“Vatican Cameos.”

John frowned, confused.

Sherlock looked up through his eyelashes. “My safeword.”

John’s hands slid behind his back as his frown melted into a dangerous smile.

“Good.”

“Good.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a special thanks to all the wonderful people at the Fic Writers' Retreat 2018 who happily listened to me read the first 1600 words of ch4 and cheered me on.  
> It meant so much to me to not only attend the retreat with you all, but to have heard all your clever intelligent thoughts on writing and fandom. I hold you all dear in my heart and hope to see you again next year.
> 
> I am also completely spoiled to have this story beta'd by [may-shepard](http://may-shepard.tumblr.com/), [justacookieofacumberbatch](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com), [nautilicious](http://%20nautilicious.tumblr.com)  
> . You are THE BEST. With your help and support my writing has improved SO MUCH. I am so lucky to have you in my life (also the best writing sprint buddies!).
> 
> Okay enough with emotions, ON WITH THE PORN.
> 
> You'll notice this chapter is almost twice as long as all the previous one. I refused to split this into two for multiple reasons that I believe you'll agree with.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoy.

Three days.

Three long days with no cases.

Three long, interminable days of failed experiments due to lack of concentration, of torturing the violin, random frustrated shouting, and throwing various objects across the sitting room.

On the plus side, it made convincing Mrs Hudson to go visit her sister for a week much easier.

The absence of fresh cups of tea appearing at his side was unexpectedly distressing, but Sherlock was well aware that tea wasn’t the issue. He needed an outlet, and nothing was working. He wouldn’t see John until Sunday, which was making the whole ordeal worse, and simultaneously better.

Patience was not one of Sherlock’s virtues. But every minute, every hour that drew him closer to Sunday night added to his growing anticipation for the spanking John had promised him. Sherlock found himself trying to predict what John would do. How he would build up to it, as he had said. Which resulted in Sherlock spending the better part of Friday and Saturday with his dick in his fist.

Scrolling through John’s blog didn’t help. It hadn’t been updated, but Sherlock read and reread everything, including the links that explained the dynamics of the Dom/Sub relationship.

What did John like? What would he do first? Would he make Sherlock kneel? Was that how a scene started? Then what? John had asked about foreplay. Would he ask Sherlock to suck his cock first? It would make sense, if he was already kneeling. John would be at the perfect height for a blowjob. Could make him deserve his spanking.

Sherlock was thinking about said blowjob on Saturday night, imagining his lips slide along John’s cock while his hands explored everything they could reach, when a text alert rang.

_How’s the head?_

Ever so the doctor. John had left Thursday night with instructions to change the bandage twice a day and had texted Sherlock multiple times to remind him. It was a bit annoying at first, as if Sherlock was unable to take care of himself, but it was nice to know John cared enough to check in as often as he did.

_Good as new. -SH_

_I’ll be the judge of that, assuming we’re still on for tomorrow?_

Sherlock stared at the screen. Was John serious? Did he not realise Sherlock had been consumed by fantasies about tomorrow? He had never wanked so often in his life, not even during his puberty, and it didn’t even begin to scratch the itch John had created.

Sherlock composed six responses that varied from “obviously” to “please come tonight” before he settled on:

_Yes. Looking forward to it. -SH_

He hit send before he could change his mind.

_Me too :)_

Oh God. Emoticons.

_I expect you to be freshly showered, and to have eaten._

Sherlock frowned. Why would John feel the need to say these things? Wouldn’t everyone take a shower before spending an evening— oh, of course, he was giving instructions, defining himself as the Dominant role. Did he expect Sherlock to reciprocate?

_Any requests for the clothing? -SH_

_Whatever you feel comfortable in is fine._

It was considerate of John to remind Sherlock the evening was about him, and what he wanted. But Sherlock still wanted to see when John would stop being nice and let the Dom in him take over.

_Would you like me to call you Sir? -SH_

_John is fine._

Another text from John followed shortly after.

_Unless you want to._

Sherlock bit his lip as he stared at the screen. Did he want to call John sir? He had read about it, but it didn’t strike him as something arousing. Sherlock had only assumed John would want something of the sort given his army back—

Oh.

_Can I call you Captain? -SH_

Sherlock’s hand slid down to his still hard cock while he waited for John’s response. The image of John in the desert, wearing his tan fatigues with golden hair under the sun filled his mind.

_Would you like that?_

Sherlock shivered, his hand tightening around his cock. John was making Sherlock speak up about what he wanted. It had such effect it was having on him, admitting to his desires and fantasies. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, the brain was the largest sexual organ in the human body.

_Yes. -SH_

Sherlock hit send as he thrust into his fist, envisioning John ordering him to suck his cock.

_Captain then. What else would you like?_

Sherlock had no idea what to say besides, “getting spanked,” which had already been made clear. The only thing he could think of was,

_You. -SH_

It may have been a mistake, admitting such a thing, but Sherlock couldn’t deny it. Spanking featured in most of his fantasies, but John was the constant. It wasn’t just his craving for the peacefulness that accompanied the pain. There was just something about John...

_You trying to get me to come over tonight?_

_Would you? -SH_

_I’d already be there if I could._

Sherlock’s breath caught at the admission. Knowing John wanted this as much as he did brought Sherlock to the edge.

_Tomorrow. 1800 hours._

It took forever to write his response with one hand. Sherlock kept himself on the brim until he hit send and came with the words pulsing in his mind.

_Yes, Captain. -SH_

* * *

 

Sherlock spent Sunday cleaning. Every time he thought about sitting down, he noticed something else to clean, or put away, or throw away. A lot of throwing away. Sherlock had to go down to the bins twice. By five o’clock, he forced himself to stop scrubbing the cupboards and go shower. At ten to six he walked into the sitting room freshly shaven, wearing a black suit and shirt, with his hair perfectly done.

Then he started pacing.

John arrived by cab at six o’clock sharp. Impressive considering London traffic. Sherlock’s heart pounded in his ears as he watched him step out, carrying what looked like a heavy duffle bag.

John didn’t oscillate on the pavement this time.

The doorbell triggered a similar reaction in Sherlock as last time: a moment of panic fuelled by fear. What was he doing? He had abandoned everything, his work, his research, to pursue carnal pleasure, and he was enjoying it. As appalling as it was, it did nothing to stop Sherlock from following the invisible thread between them.

He stared at the black door apprehensively.

Into battle.

Sherlock smoothed his suit, and opened the door.

Their time apart had done nothing to diffuse the sexual tension. John’s bright smile was a soothing balm on Sherlock’s longing, while his hungry eyes made Sherlock hold on to the door for dear life.

With a small hello, Sherlock stepped aside to let John in. He eyed the duffle bag, quickly attempting to deduce its contents before leading the way upstairs. Once in the sitting room Sherlock noticed tea stains on the coffee table. How did he miss them? And were those spiderwebs above the drapes?

“Hey.”

Sherlock turned, only now noticing John had already put down his bag and hung his coat. He was wearing jeans, and a plaid shirt with a black jumper. Not really what Sherlock had pictured. Not after his visit to the shop, and certainly not after having done research on the subject. Perhaps John had planned to change here. What was that look in his eye? Was he waiting for Sherlock do something? Was there a special greeting? Should he make tea? Or kneel?

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a command, but a soft request. With a flutter in his chest, Sherlock took a step forward.

“Closer.”

Hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt, Sherlock closed the distance between them. It felt surreal, being so close to John. Sherlock ached to touch him, to shove John against the door and kiss him until his lungs burned. The urge was so powerful that Sherlock kept perfectly still as he waited for further instructions, as if a single movement would unleash him.

John brushed back Sherlock's hair to look at his stitches, then rested his hand on the nape of his neck, a soothing warmth over tense muscles.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh. God, “Yes.”

At least that’s what Sherlock tried to say. It came out more as a broken sound around the lump in his throat.

John’s hand guided Sherlock to his lips. The gentle kiss grew deeper as John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock, holding him close. The pace was slow, exploratory, soothing. It left Sherlock wanting more while John trailed his lips along his jaw.

“Mm, I’ve wanted to do that since the first time we met.” John nipped at Sherlock’s ear, which seemed to have a direct link to his cock. “And it’s been driving me mad for the last three days.”

Before Sherlock could attest to his own 72 hours of madness, John pulled him in for another kiss. It wasn’t gentle this time. It grew deep and passionate. John’s tongue licked along the seam of Sherlock’s lips as he thrusted his hips forward, rubbing his hardening cock against Sherlock’s.

With a gasp, Sherlock thrusted back, pawing at John, licking his way into his mouth. He was so wound up that the slightest touch felt heightened. Which made being shoved against the door quite a surprise. 

“Better stop.” John held Sherlock’s wrists on either side of his shoulders. “You asked for a spanking, not snogging and grinding against the door.”

“I don’t mind.”

John’s smile was wonderfully dangerous as he leaned in to whisper. “But I spent all this time thinking about how to make this good for you.”

The grip on Sherlock’s wrists tightened.

“Don’t you want to see what I have planned?”

John’s lips brushed against his ear, making Sherlock shiver.

“Yes.”

John pulled back to look at him. “Yes, what?”

Oh, John was good.

“Yes, Captain.”

It was fascinating, how those words made Sherlock heady. Judging by that sly smile, John enjoyed the effect as well.

“I’m going to go change. I expect a cup of tea waiting for me when I come out.”

Sherlock attempted to kiss John again, but he stayed out of reach.

“Maybe you’ll get one when I come out. If you behave.”

Sherlock regretted what followed. He didn’t mean it, not really. The fact was, Mycroft had told him to ‘behave’ so many times, that it had become a habit to roll his eyes. Sherlock simply didn’t catch himself in time.

He expected a verbal reprimand, maybe his hair pulled, or even a slap. Not a knee in the thigh. It was so unexpected that it was easy for John to turn Sherlock, twist his arm behind his back and push him up against the door.

“Let’s get one thing clear you little brat. I will not tolerate this sort of attitude. It’s one thing when you’re working a case, but here you won’t get away with it. If it had been up to me, you would have gotten a spanking in Lestrade’s office for that insubordination.”

Sherlock was surprised to find that the idea of John spanking him while Lestrade watched made his dick harder.

“Now, since this is your first time, I’m going to let this one go. But you roll your eyes at me one more time, you will regret it.”

“Is that so?”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He knew this experience would have its challenges, that it would push his boundaries, at least that’s what all the websites said. John’s use of force was so sudden that everything in Sherlock screamed to get himself free, to fight John. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To push through the flight or fight response?

With his free hand, John gripped the hair on the back of Sherlock head, just above his neck, and pulled. It wasn’t particularly painful, but John had complete control over his mobility. It was degrading; Sherlock felt like a cat being held down, yet his cock remained hard.

“You want to try that again? It almost sounded like you were talking back.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and spoke through clenched teeth.

“No, Captain.”

“Good. And remember, no talking unless I tell you to, or to safeword. Understand?”

Sherlock nodded as best he could against John’s grip.

“Good.” John let go of Sherlock and took a step back. 

Sherlock turned, untwisted his arm and glared. He could taste the nasty deductions on his tongue. 

John tilted his head, silently daring Sherlock to keep pushing.

Why was John making that sexy?

Even though it went against his every instinct, Sherlock backed down, slouching against the door.

John grabbed his duffle bag. “Splash of milk in my tea,” he said before disappearing into the bathroom.

Sherlock stared down the corridor.

Well. That was… something.

Perplexed, Sherlock filled the kettle. He wondered what he had gotten himself into as he reached for a teacup. All he wanted was a spanking, a way to shut down his brain. He didn’t need this power dynamic game to obtain it.

 _Behave_.

The word rang loudly in Sherlock’s mind, making the teacup land vigorously on the counter.

His entire life Sherlock had been told he was the problem. That he was the one who needed to adapt. That he should use his superior intellect to navigate norms, standards, etiquette, and procedures when in reality at it did was slow him down.

 _Behave_.

Bollocks. Most people didn’t deserve the courtesy. Most people were awful, pathetic, lying, manipulative, and greedy. They were the ones who needed self control, who needed to adhere to social conventions.

So why, or how could Sherlock enjoy being shoved against the door and told to behave? In any other context this would be unacceptable. He had let himself spiral so deeply into fantasies that he accepted, no, asked for this. Lust had impaired his judgement, and he needed to put an end to it.

Sherlock stopped the water before it boiled, poured it over the teabag, and added a splash of milk. He was setting down John’s tea next to the red armchair when the bathroom door opened. Sherlock turned to the sound of heavy footsteps, ready to tell John he had made a mistake, that the evening was over.

Prepared words melted away when John stepped onto the landing, wearing his tan army fatigues and a dangerous look in his eye.

Sherlock could read John’s story in the worn fabric of his trousers, the multiple repairs around the pockets, the worn latches and strings that had held tools to save lives and kill others, the scuffed combat boots, the sweat stains on his shirt. Sherlock was lost in visions of golden hair in the sun.

But… there was nothing else. Just his time in the army. John had never worn this to Dom before. It was for Sherlock. Stunned by the revelation, he hadn’t noticed John had been watching him until their eyes met.

“Kneel.”

Sherlock’s knees landed between the armchairs before his brain registered the command. Whatever intentions he had of ending the evening dissolved as he looked up at Captain Watson.

“Face the red armchair.”

Sherlock obeyed, using his peripheral vision to track John. He stepped closer, slowly making his way around Sherlock.

“Straighten your back. Spread your knees. Hands on your thighs.”

He could feel John sizing him up, like a Captain checking his troops. Seemingly satisfied, John sat in the red armchair and sipped his tea.

“How do you feel? You can answer.”

“Fine.”

“I can tell you showered, but did you eat like I told you?”

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

“No, Captain.”

Stupid. Such simple instructions and Sherlock had been too preoccupied by the state of the flat to remember to eat.

“I’m disappointed.”

John’s soft voice felt like a knife twisting in Sherlock’s gut. His head hung low when John put down his tea and stood. A few minutes ago he was planning to tell John to leave, and now he was worried he had ruined the evening by disobeying. Shame overtook what was left of Sherlock’s arousal.

The sound of the fridge opening and closing halted Sherlock’s train of thought. He straightened and saw John put two slices of bread into the toaster.

Sherlock was relieved John wasn’t planning to leave but confused that he was making toast. With butter and jam and cutting them into bite size pieces. If this was so important to John, shouldn’t he ask Sherlock what he wanted to eat? Because there was a perfectly good leftover pad Thai—

John returned to the sitting room with the plate and a glass of water. Rather than handing the items to Sherlock, John took a piece between his thumb and forefinger, and held it out to Sherlock.

“Eat.”

Sherlock blinked. Was John serious? Was he about to hand-feed Sherlock?

“Things can get intense, especially when it comes to pain play. I don’t want you fainting in the middle of our scene.”

Against his better judgement, Sherlock took the piece of toast into his mouth.

“You’re adorable when you pout.”

This was ridiculous, being called adorable while kneeling and being fed. This was nothing like the evening Sherlock had imagined. He took the next piece of toast and fumed. He hated being treated like a child. It was his own fault for forgetting. For getting himself in this situation in the first place. He deserved the humiliation.

When Sherlock took the next bite, John’s thumb lingered on his lip. It put a halt to Sherlock’s spiralling thoughts. He watched as John brought it to his own mouth and licked.

Oh. _Oh_.

Another piece of toast was offered. Sherlock stared into John’s eyes, licked his lips, and opened his mouth. He was pleased John let him close his lips around his thumb along with the toast.

By the last piece, Sherlock was sucking on two of John’s fingers. It was unbelievable. Hard again. Sherlock had never considered eating as something sexual and now his mind was busy figuring out what else they could do with food.

“Alright, that’s enough.” John said with a gruff voice as he pulled his fingers away.

He put down the plate and took the glass of water. Sherlock raised his hand to take the glass, but John guided it to his lips. Out of instinct, Sherlock turned away. He closed his eyes tightly as he struggled. With a single finger on the side of his jaw, John turned Sherlock’s head forward.

“Next time you’ll remember to eat.”

Next time?

John suggesting they would see each other again despite their difficult start was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to drink from the offered glass. The process went well. Only a bit of the water dripped down his chin and neck, disappearing under his shirt collar. John gently wiped it off with the back of his fingers.

Once the glass was put aside, John sat back, hands on the armrests, and stared down at Sherlock. Within the blink of an eye, Captain Watson was back.

“Up.”

Sherlock fumbled a bit in the process, troubled by the sudden realisation there was no way to conceal the tent in his trousers. It was embarrassing, standing there, in his tailored suit with an unyielding erection. John looked him up and down, licking his lips as he lingered on Sherlock cock.

“Strip.”

It was the worst moment to feel self-conscious. Sherlock wasn’t ashamed of his body, he had been naked with other people before, but he had never made a show of getting undressed. With a practiced movement, Sherlock took off his suit jacket, placing it over the back of the desk chair. He turned to face John, fingers shaking as he unbuttoned his cuffs.

“Look at me.”

Sherlock held John’s stare while he unbuttoned his shirt. As he reached the bottom, he untucked it from his trousers, aware of how much attention he drew to his cock. With a brush of his hands, the shirt slid off Sherlock’s shoulders, the fabric bunching in the crook of his elbows.

The lust in John’s eyes faded into something different, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Sherlock laid the shirt over his jacket. Shoes and socks followed. When his hands reached for the clasp of his trousers, Sherlock hesitated. He didn’t understand. Why was standing naked in the middle of his sitting room making him feel so vulnerable?

“Sherlock?”

How long had he been standing there staring at his trousers?

“Come kneel in front of me.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what was happening, but he obeyed.

“You okay?”

John’s voice was soft, worried. Sherlock was about to nod but reminded himself he needed to be honest. He shrugged instead.

“Bit overwhelmed?”

Sherlock nodded. John leaned in, his hand gently brushing back a stray curl before clasping warmly on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“That’s okay. I’m glad you told me.”

John’s kiss was so tender.

“Come on gorgeous, up.”

Sherlock took John’s offered hand. Shirtless and barefoot, Sherlock followed John to the bedroom.

“Sit on the bed.”

John grabbed his duffle bag from the bathroom while Sherlock settled himself.

“I don’t think we’ll need it, but just in case.”

The soft lighting in the bedroom reduced the sensation of being exposed, but Sherlock’s muscles remained tense. John must have noticed, approaching Sherlock as if he were a frightened animal. He found the behaviour ridiculous, until John settled between his legs, placing the prominent tent in his fatigues a few inches in front of Sherlock’s face. He wanted to look away, but it was just so—

John’s hands cupped Sherlock’s face, tilted his head back, and he leaned in for a kiss.

A delicate press of John’s lips, warm hands on his face. With every kiss Sherlock’s muscles relaxed. John pulled back and looked at Sherlock with soft eyes that made his chest hurt.

Being in the bedroom made everything more… intimate.

John leaned down and kissed along Sherlock’s brows, his cheeks, his jaw.

“I have a confession to make.” John’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m obsessed with your mouth. Your lips. How they would look around my cock.”

Oh.

“Would you like that?”

John’s trail of kisses continued. Slowly. Gently. Giving Sherlock time to think.

“Take my cock into your mouth?”

Sherlock closed his eyes as the image filled his mind.

“Wrap your lips around it?”

Run his tongue along the length of it, pressing the head against his throat. Shivers ran down Sherlock’s back. He wanted John in his mouth, wanted to please him, wanted to do something right after their difficult start. 

“Yes.”

If John hadn’t been right next to his ear, Sherlock would have missed his shaky breath. In an instant Sherlock was consumed with the need to hear John come undone while Sherlock worshipped his cock.

“Yes, what?”

Sherlock pulled back. He wanted to see John’s reaction as he spoke the words.

“Yes, Captain. I want to suck your cock.”

John’s eyes fell half-lidded as the tiniest of whimpers escaped him.

“On your hands and knees, facing me.”

With new-found eagerness, Sherlock obeyed. Once in position he slowly reached for John’s tan trousers, savouring the first time he would touch him.

“No hands.”

Sherlock looked up, confused, hand frozen in mid-air. John was still fully dressed, how was he supposed to—

“Did you really think I wouldn’t make you work for that spanking?”

John deserved points for creativity. His satisfied smirk may also have something to do with why Sherlock was finding the challenge arousing rather than disgraceful.

Sherlock stared at John’s tented trousers and evaluated his options. His obstacles were a zip and button. Sherlock was certain there was a belt in the standard uniform but was grateful it was skipped. Assuming John wouldn’t intervene with new parameters during the process, the task was feasible.

The zipper was the simplest to deal with, and the first step, since the button would be easier to undo from under than above. Getting the pull tab between his teeth was a bit more difficult than anticipated, but well worth it to discover John was not wearing any pants. Which meant Sherlock could skip the button and get John’s cock out through the zipper opening.

Adjusting his position on the bed, Sherlock started pushing John’s cock towards the opening with his nose. A pleased hum came from above. Soon after, John’s hands started stroking his back. Sherlock replied by stroking John’s length with his cheek, relishing the deep hum it elicited.

Pursuing his quest to free John’s cock, Sherlock bit the zipper flap and tugged, hoping it would pop out of the opening. Apparently, it was too long and hard, pushing against the waistline. Sherlock tried pulling upwards, so the zipper would slip over John’s cock, but his hold was too low.  He dropped the zipper flap and dug his way under John’s t-shirt to get access to the waistband. Getting a good hold without biting John was surprisingly difficult, but the struggle seemed to be enjoyable to John, even if it meant he was covered with spit.

Finally, Sherlock’s teeth grabbed onto the fabric. He tugged, guided by the brush of John’s cock under his chin. It was a slow process, but it worked. John’s hot, hard cock popped out, landing in the crook of his neck.

“Mm, so clever.”

Sherlock pulled back, finally getting a look at John’s cock. It was beautiful, a dark shade of red, twitching eagerly.

Without thinking Sherlock leaned in, nuzzling the base, enjoying the sensation of sparse hairs over the soft skin. He smelled soap with a hint of musk. Sherlock’s tongue peeked out, sampling a taste before licking a long stripe up to the tip. The task was easier said than done without a hand holding the base. John’s cock kept shifting, making Sherlock twist and turn to follow the movement. Having the head slip into his mouth was accidental but welcome. He closed his lips around the girth and sucked lightly.

Judging by the strain in John’s abdominal muscles, he had thrown his head back to curse loudly. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the tip, tasting the bitter pre-cum before starting a slow slide. He shifted his position, the new angle allowing John deeper into his mouth.

“Fuck.”

The soft petting on Sherlock’s back turned into scratching, making him moan around John’s cock. He added a bit of suction, which caused obscene wet sounds every time John pulled out.

Suddenly John backed away, one hand holding Sherlock in place while the other pinched the base of his dick.

“Fuck, stop, stop or this is going to be over way too fast.”

Sherlock looked up at John. His pupils were blown wide, outlined by the thin blue line of his iris. A faint sheen of sweat covered his brow and forehead as he fought for control.

Beautiful.

“Nope,” John closed his eyes. “I can’t look at you right now.” He blew out a breath as he looked up at the ceiling instead.

It was such a thrill to see John struggle, that the mere sight of Sherlock was too much to handle. He wanted to keep going, wanted to make John come undone with just his mouth. His cock was right there, bright red with a bead of pre-cum on the tip just begging to be licked.

Tugging against the hold on his hair, Sherlock got John’s attention.

Imagining what John saw from above, Sherlock licked his lips, stuck out his tongue and strained against John’s hold. 

A part of Sherlock was surprised by his behaviour. He never would have imagined himself silently begging to suck cock. After getting hand-fed and told to behave, this was decadent.

“Look at you.”

John stepped forward just enough for Sherlock take the tip into his mouth. With a pleased moan, Sherlock wrapped his lips around and sucked.

“Fuck.”

John’s grip loosened, letting Sherlock suck more into his mouth and start a slow back and forth. John’s fingers felt along Sherlock’s lips, where his cock disappeared.

“Those fucking lips.”

Sherlock moaned as he pushed forward, stuffing his mouth with cock until it hit his throat. John growled, hands moving to hold Sherlock’s head, and started thrusting. Sherlock covered his teeth with his lips and tightened the circle around John’s cock.

“Oh, fuck, yes, like that. God you’re so good. So good to me.”

The praise made Sherlock moan, the sound muffled by his full mouth. John kept a slow rhythm, his fingers returning to Sherlock’s mouth, slipping along his spit-covered chin.

“So. Fucking. Good.”

John punctuated each word with a deep thrust before pulling out. With a distressed whine, Sherlock looked up, worried he had done something wrong.

“Up, on your knees.”

Sherlock obeyed, hissing as the change of position made him realise how neglected and uncomfortable his cock was. John’s fingers dragged along the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. He smirked as he popped the latch and pulled down the zipper. Sherlock gasped. He was so sensitive it hurt, but it was such a relief when John pulled down his trousers. Maintaining eye contact, John pulled the elastic of Sherlock’s pants up and over his cock, then down to join the trousers around his knees.

The lack of constraint was such a relief, Sherlock had to fight to keep his upright position.

“You can continue now.”

It took a beat for Sherlock to remember what John meant, then dropped heavily onto his hands. With a pleased moan, Sherlock dove in, nuzzling the base of John’s cock.

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’m amending my no talking rule. You can say ‘Yes, Captain’ as often as you want.”

Sherlock smiled against John’s cock. “Yes, Captain.”

With a swirl of tongue around the glans, Sherlock slowly pushed his lips down the length of John’s cock, managing a last breath before pushing it down his throat as far as he could without gagging.

“Fuck.”

John gripped his hair again. Sherlock expected John to thrust, only to be directed to move his head around instead, rubbing John’s cock all around his throat.

“Oh fuck.”

Regrettably out of air, Sherlock pulled back, tongued the length as he took a few breaths before repeating the process.

“Oh, _Sherlock_.”

His name sounded like a reverence on John’s lips. He wanted to hear every iteration of it. Sherlock sped up his thrusting. The grip on Sherlock’s hair tightened as John’s cock throbbed in his mouth.

“Fuck, oh fuck.”

The next moment John’s cock was gone.

“Up.”

John helped Sherlock straighten then pulled him in for a filthy kiss that was mostly tongue. Sherlock’s chin and neck was covered in spit, but it didn’t seem to bother John. He still licked and grazed his teeth down to his shoulder.

“Can I mark you?”

Research information popped up through the fog of arousal, but Sherlock brushed it away. He didn’t need to think about it.

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock let his head fell back, offering himself.

John’s arms tightened around Sherlock as he nuzzled and tongued the crook of his neck. It made shivers run up and down Sherlock’s back. He squirmed and moaned until John bit down.

Sherlock cried out, his body going rigid in John’s embrace. Teeth dug deep into his muscle, just on the edge of tearing the skin. Surgical precision that sent delicious shivers through his body. John’s teeth disappeared, replaced by suction, making the pain even more vivid. Sherlock hissed and writhed in John’s arms, his cock was so hard he could burst.

To Sherlock’s relief and disappointment, the suction stopped. John’s tongue soothed the area, then licked a path up to Sherlock’s ear.

“I think you’ve earned your reward.”

Sherlock heard himself gasp.

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”

Once more, Sherlock thought about how he should be ashamed to be so eager to get spanked, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not anymore. Not with everything he had gone through to get here, Sherlock wasn’t about to get in his own way.

“Hands and knees, facing the headboard.”

Sherlock stumbled as he obeyed, forgetting his trousers and pants were around his knees, and because he couldn’t stop shaking.

John placed Sherlock near the edge of the bed where he was standing. When he took a step closer, he pressed against Sherlock’s side, and his cock bumped into Sherlock’s.

Brilliant.

Whatever Sherlock’s hips were doing to get more friction was cut short by a firm hold in his hair.

“Don’t. Move.”

Sherlock’s body went rigid.

“Yes, Captain.”

John slid the tip of his fingers along the length of Sherlock’s back, down his hips and along the back of his thighs, then back up, brushing along his perineum and over his arsehole along the way. Sherlock trembled as he fought to stay in place.

“Look at you, trying so hard to be still. You’re doing so good.”

John started massaging Sherlock’s arse cheeks, his fingers digging into the muscles.

“You worked so hard for your spanking. You deserve it. I’m going to make this so good for you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes close, let himself be soothed by John’s soft voice.

“Now we’re going to warm up the skin a bit, get the blood flowing. Ready?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sherlock sounded so desperate and didn’t care. He wanted this so much.

The massaging hand disappeared and with delight, Sherlock counted to three.

John’s hand hit the left cheek first. Before Sherlock could fully register the pain, John immediately hit the right. One after the other, again and again. John wasn’t hitting hard, but there was barely any time to recover, making each hit more painful than the next.

Slowly, the pain started to overtake him. Every input was tuned down, drowned out by the slow building burn on his arse. The pain was growing, yet Sherlock felt himself relax, letting everything wash away. Everything except John.

“God, look at you. You really needed this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Tell me, tell me what it does to you.”

Oh God, how was John expecting Sherlock to form a coherent thought?

“My mind. Everything goes quiet.”

“That big beautiful brain of yours. You need a break. Blow off some steam.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sherlock had no idea how long the repeated strikes lasted, but it felt like too much and not enough. All of a sudden John let go of Sherlock’s hair, and the room rang loudly with silence. Sherlock let his head hang between his shoulders. The back rub resumed, but Sherlock barely felt it against the his burning arse.

“You okay?”

“Yes, Cap-Ah!”

John’s nail trailed down his arse. it was only a light graze, but it felt like ice needles against fire. John’s message was clear: the next hits we’re going to be excruciating painful.

“You still want to keep going?” John asked as Sherlock writhed under a single finger.

“Yes, Captain.”

With a pleased hum, John switched to his full hand to massage Sherlock’s arse while the other resumed its place in Sherlock’s hair. “Ten spanks. Count each one and I’ll let you come after.”

As hoped, the pain had helped Sherlock’s mind relax. He couldn’t have known that it would also make him inhabit his body more deeply than ever before. So when John punctuated his statement with a thrust of his hips, brushing his cock against Sherlock’s, the touch felt electric. The pleasure felt so intense against the burn of his arse. The sound that came out of his body was more shock than pleasure. It was too much and not enough, and he desperately wanted more. He tried to thrust, to get some kind of friction on his cock but John quickly put a stop to it with a tug.

“Don’t. Move.”

Sherlock was too deep to care about his needy whine.

“Ready?”

“Yes, yes, Captain.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and impatiently counted down the seconds to his first spank.

Three. Two. One.

 _Smack_.

Oh, God.

The pain. It was so much. Sherlock gasped for air.

“Count.”

John’s command rang against the blaze.

“One.”

“One what?”

John’s lust-filled growl fueled Sherlock’s desire.

“One, Captain.”

 _Smack_.

Oh shit.

John wasn’t alternating. His hand landed exactly in the same spot, increasing the pain to a throbbing blaze.

“Two, Captain.” Sherlock hissed.

 _Smack_.

His eyes stung with tears as he choked a gasp.

“Three, Captain.”

 _Smack_.

Sherlock’s mouth opened but no sound came out. His back arched, toes curling. His left arse cheek burned in the cool air of the room.

“Four. Captain.”

 _Smack_.

Sherlock cried out. The only reason he was still holding the position was because his entire body stunned by the pain. He kept trying to say the words but the link between thought and action had been severed.

“You’re doing so good, Sherlock.”

John’s soothing voice seemed to appear out of nowhere, until his lips pressed against Sherlock’s temple.

“Don’t fight the pain, just accept it.”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what happened then, but something inside him let go.

The constant influx of data, buzzing around like angry bees, vanished. The pain was still there, a deep scorching throb, but it wasn’t overwhelming anymore. Like swimming downstream, letting the current be his guide. Serenity washed over Sherlock’s as he abandoned himself to John’s care.

“Five, Captain.”

 _Smack_.

Sherlock cried with relief when the hit landed on the right. The pain seemed so mild in comparison.

“Six, Captain.”  

 _Smack_.

Sherlock moaned obscenely as the burn increased.

“Fuck. Look at you.” John whispered.

Sherlock arched his back. “Seven, Captain.”

John growled. Loudly.

 _Smack_.

Oh, God.

“Eight, Captain.”

 _Smack_.

Oh, _God_.

“Nine, Captain.”

 _Smack_.

Oh.

God.

“Amazing.”

Wrapped in John’s praise, Sherlock let himself be carried downstream.

It wasn’t until he felt it come undone that Sherlock became aware he’d had a tight ball in his chest. Everything he had been holding back, holding in, hiding, protecting, it fanned out. He could do nothing against the wave of emotion rising inside him except ride it out, like a raging fire that couldn’t be extinguished until it had consumed everything in its path. The warm press of John’s hand on the nape of his neck was all the reassurance Sherlock needed to let it run its course.

“Ten, Captain.”

He was vaguely aware of being moved, laid down. John was talking, but the words weren’t registering. Only his voice. Then his lips. Wonderfully soft lips.

With a single kiss, Sherlock’s pain-induced haze dissolved into lust.

He had let go of everything, including his shame, his sense of propriety. It left every cell in his body longing to consume John. To tear him apart and put him back together. To never let him go.

Thrusting his tongue into John’s mouth, Sherlock clawed at him, thrilled to discover he was now undressed. John pinned him down, hands above his head. Sherlock moaned about needing to touch him, barely aware of his legs being spread apart until John was settled between them. John’s thick cock slid against Sherlock’s, while John’s thighs rubbed against his burning arse. It was incredible, the mix of pleasure and pain. The more Sherlock strained and moaned and begged, the harder John thrust and bit and licked, whispering wonderfully filthy things into his ear.

“Look at you. I wonder how long I could keep you on the edge? How long would it take for you to beg me to let you come? Would you like that? I could fuck you for hours, spank you so hard you couldn’t sit down for a week. Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’d have to fuck your mouth until your arse recovered. Mm, those lips would look filthy covered with my cum.”

Sherlock was losing his mind. It was too much and not enough.

“ _John_.”

As if he knew what Sherlock needed, John’s bit down on his trapezoid. With a broken cry, Sherlock arched as he came, shaking through alternating waves of pleasure and pain. It was almost too much, until John’s teeth disappeared, replaced by a deep moan as his cock pulsed against Sherlock’s. John released his hold on Sherlock’s wrists and buried his face in his neck as his thrusts slowed to a stop. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. His muscles felt heavy, strained, but he needed to hold John.

Slowly, John relaxed against him, his body sinking deeper against Sherlock’s. Their bodies fit perfectly together. It was bliss.

Utter, sinful, bliss.

* * *

 

A gentle kiss on the forehead woke Sherlock. He opened his eyes and found John looking at him with a soft smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Sherlock croaked back. “I fell asleep?”

“More like dozed off for a minute. How are you feeling?”

If only Sherlock had the mental capacity to say just how he felt waking up in John’s arms after a spanking and a spectacular orgasm.

“Good. Very good.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“You?”

John brushed a sweaty curl off Sherlock’s forehead before leaning in for a soft kiss. “Very very good. Stay here, I’ll clean us up.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around John, keeping him in place. With a pleased hum, John kissed him, still drowsy from his orgasm.

Sherlock’s limbs protested as he unwrapped himself from John. He was sticky. The bedcover felt like sandpaper on his arse. Except none of that mattered as he watched a gloriously naked John walk to the bathroom and come back with a wet flannel. He gently wiped away the drying semen on Sherlock’s cock and stomach before disappearing into the bathroom once more. When he came back, John headed towards his duffle bag. Sherlock watched him, curious to see what he would pull out.

“Lotion.” John showed the small blue bottle in his hand when he reached the bed.

“For what?”

“For that brilliant shade of pink on your arse.” John slightly scratched his nail along the skin to prove his point. “It will help with the pain.”

Sherlock smiled. “No lotion.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock’s hand slid over John’s, pressing his fingers deeper into his abused skin. “I want to make it last.”

“Good, cause that bite is gonna be there a while.” John nodded towards Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock brushed his fingers against it. John’s teeth hadn’t pierced the skin, but the inflammation was textured. He gave it a press and was pleased with the tingling sensation.

“Good.”

Perfect.

John shook his head as he put the lotion aside. “Amazing.”

“Mm, it was.”

“I mean you.”

Sherlock blinked while John laid down next to him.

“You’re amazing. You’re clever, brilliant, bloody gorgeous, and now you’re lying there pressing against my mark like a little pain slut.”

Sherlock smirked. Funny how he preferred being a little pain slut rather than other terms of endearment along the lines of fuzzy bunnies.

“You were amazing too. I’m sorry I was so—”

“No, you stop that right now. You were perfect.”

John’s bright smile was contagious.

“I’ll remember to eat next time.”

“Good,” John whispered before giving Sherlock a soft kiss.

“Good.”

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way: I was wearing the army!John cosplay at the retreat while I read. *grin*

**Author's Note:**

> [Il Bolero really does exist!](http://www.ilbolero.com/)  
>  It's in Montréal, Québec (Canada). The selection is pretty much what is described in the fic. I personally had a good experience when I went, but google notes STRONGLY disagrees (it seems the owner is a bit of an asshole - not as described in the fic). So maybe not go out of your way to visit.  
> This fic will most likely have a sequel. Because so many things to explore!


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